


Leading By Example

by Feynite, SeleneLavellan



Series: Dirthalene [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: F/M, Romance, Slow Burn and then a lot a kinks, Trope Subversion/Inversion, a/b/o au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 45,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneLavellan/pseuds/SeleneLavellan
Summary: Alphas are leaders.This is what Dirthamen is told, when he takes on a body.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An Alpha/Beta/Omega Dirthalene AU in which Feynites and I try to explore and subvert issues within this sort of story and have a good time.

Alphas are leaders.

This is what Dirthamen is told, when he takes on a body. Alphas are natural leaders, natural fighters and conquerors, champions and generals. He is an alpha, and so is his brother; they are meant to be leaders, just as their parents are. It is the role to which they would be best suited.

Dirthamen does not think that he is a good leader, however.

He is not a good alpha, either.

He and his brother are embodied for a little more than fifty years before the natural cycles of their bodies begin to assert themselves. Falon’Din, as ever, goes first. He is sequestered away with a number of suitable companions, and he seems to enjoy the experience. It makes him feel powerful, he tells Dirthamen. It is a _‘rush’._ Dirthamen thinks of snowflakes between his feathers, and wonders if it will be like that for him.

It is not.

When his time comes, his parents choose a number of suitable companions for him as well. Betas and omegas. Dirthamen feels like his skin is trying to burn its way from him, and his form shifts and fights, writhing with the unpleasantness. He does not approach the people, does not like them. He does not _know_ them, and though some of their scents are intriguing, when they reach for him he recoils. Moving back and back until he ends up in a far corner of the room, all but vibrating with distress and with a thousand conflicting urges, disoriented and wishing fiercely for the ordeal to come to an _end._

He goes into a strange kind of limbo, at that. Drifting in the desire for an end, floating away from the heat and ravages of his body, until everything is quiet. Not quite peaceful, but no longer burning. His skin turns to stone, and he becomes like a statue; perched in the corner of the chambers, immovable until at last the storm passes, and he finds he can breathe again. _Be_ again. He sinks down and down, and away, falling into the quiet fog at the back of his mind, to find his body sweaty and unpleasant, still nearly-hostile to himself in a way.

His parents are… off-put.

His brother says it is because Dirthamen is not like him. Not a ‘true’ alpha. Dirthamen is uncertain of what is meant, but it seems undeniable that he has failed some kind of test. He takes remedies for his next rut, pioneers several spells to ward it off, and then on for the next one, too, until he figures out how to attain some measure of control over the situation. Usually he still sequesters himself. There is a violence to it, although that violence seems to lack a defined target. Instead it twists itself inwards, and he is left feeling savagely attacked by his own flesh.

It is strange, to have this odd sense of betrayal for what is supposedly the natural course of things.

His parents are both Alphas. It is a bond, they claim, that transcends the usual dynamics of alphas, betas, and omegas. It is pure strength, and they are one another’s perfect partner, in a way that none but alphas could ever be. Alphas and betas may bond with their own in Elvhenan, but omegas, it is said, are much too weak. They need the strength of another, the protection and guidance, or else they will be lost to pining and suffering and exploitation.

Dirthamen sees many omegas being exploited, he cannot deny that.

Though most often it seems to be the doing of the alphas and betas meant to protect them.

“They like it,” his brother tells him. “It is in the natures to give, and be used. They need strong alphas to own them. Nothing else will make them fulfilled.”

His brother seems to understand these things much better than Dirthamen does.

When their younger sister presents as an omega, however, he is given a different view of the situation. Their parents swear him to secrecy on the matter – even from Falon’Din; though Dirthamen is becoming accustomed to keeping all manner of secrets. Andruil’s state is disguised, with spells he himself has improvised over the years, although worked in reverse. His sister is made to _seem_ like an alpha, and given the roles of one, and while Dirthamen does not think Andruil is a particularly good leader, she is no worse at it than he. She is fierce and unyielding, and the ruse is never suspected; the daughter of two great leaders is a great leader herself, and this fits with people’s expectations.

Dirthamen wonders if Andruil is a bad omega, in the way that he is a bad alpha. In a backwards sense that might make it a good thing, instead.

Even so, no one who knows is surprised when she takes an alpha for her wife. Their mother is not pleased that Ghilan’nain manages to discover Andruil’s secret. But Ghilan’nain loves Andruil, as well, and Dirthamen does not think she would tell. Their bond seems to make Andruil happy. This makes him wonder, in turn, if it is only their parents insistence on pretences that has made her the way she is. Perhaps she would have been a good omega, left to her own devices.

Perhaps Dirthamen is truly alone in his deviations.

When Sylaise comes, another alpha, the family seems set to maintain the appearance of alphas one and all. Sylaise chooses a beta from her suitors to be her bonded mate. Though rumours abounded that June was once able to achieve the dragon’s form, these are swiftly quashed. June is a beta, and betas and omegas are not capable of such transformations, and that is a well-known thing. However, it is admitted that perhaps June became something _close_ to a dragon, as betas are something _close_ to an alpha; and so he is afforded good status in Sylaise’s circles, and is named her most valued subject and prized follower.

It is a role that other elves within the empire begin to covet; being the bonded spouse of an evanuris. After Ghilan’nain’s ascension, as well, it seems to be a position open to many opportunities, and Dirthamen’s mother does hint that there may be need for another leader or two yet to rise. To balance out the management of the empire, to shore up some of the… weaknesses, that yet remain, here and there.

Mythal summons Dirthamen, of an evening, and asks if he thinks he might not prefer the bonding of a fellow alpha. Like herself and Elgar’nan, perhaps. She has been wondering, she says, if it was not a mistake for her to fail to consider this, when Dirthamen was first coming into his own.

He does not think he would enjoy another alpha’s presence during the confusing maelstrom of his heats. The thought makes him feel inexplicably _more_ terrified. But he agrees to ‘meet some people’, at least, and so begins a series of balls and banquets, celebrations deemed _Alpha’s Ceremonies,_ in which he finds himself introduced to all manner of such people from throughout the empire. Dirthamen is forced to be present for such events in a way he is rarely comfortable with, and he finds himself regretting his acquiescence in very short order.

Deceit takes over most of the introductions, for a while.

Dirthamen discovers very many good hiding places in various territories throughout the empire, in turn.

It is as he is lingering under an outdoor stairwell at Sylaise’s autumn palace, that he overhears voices rising up from a corner of the garden.

“I can smell it on you,” a rough voice says.

“I am attending my duties,” another, more rigid in tone, replies.

Dirthamen shifts as the wind picks up, and carries several scents towards him. A flowery tone; masking, but insufficient to disguise the note of omega-near-heat, as well as alpha-near-rut. The voices move nearer, after a moment. A tall woman, simply clad in servant’s garb, is carrying a tray. Another elf followers her, larger still and distinctly predatory in aura. Likely mid-ranking, by their clothing, and the alpha of the two, by their behaviour. As Dirthamen watches the servant attempt to make her way back into the building. The alpha grasps her by the arm.

“I have some _duties_ you can attend right here,” they growl, unbalancing the tray and knocking the few items on it to the ground. Dirthamen sees them fall, and feels a familiar disquiet. The servant radiates a sharp pulse of distress, before a familiar numbness seems to come over her. It tastes, in the air, like the fear and horrible disconnect which Dirthamen himself feels before his ruts.

His brother’s words ring through his mind, as the alpha begins dragging her over to the little bench on the other side of the garden.

_They like it._

But this does not look like any kind of enjoyment. Not for anyone save the alpha, and Dirthamen feels such a rush of kinship with the woman that, in a moment, he does something uncharacteristic of himself.

He acts.

It does not take much. He strides out from under the stairwell, and the mid-ranking alpha freezes at his scent; uninhibited in the spirit of the ‘festivities’. The elf turns, clearly gearing up for some kind of fight, and then almost immediately fear replaces the competitive spark, and they back down.

“Lord Dirthamen,” they stutter. “Good, um, good evening.”

“Go away,” Dirthamen commands.

“I was only-“

“Now.”

“Yes, my lord,” the elf manages, and then it is their turn to make haste back towards the building. Dirthamen watches them go. The scents of alpha and omega and fading perfume still strong on the air, until the moment passes. Then they turn back to where the servant is crouched by the bench, wide-eyed and frozen. They wonder if she is stuck. It feels like that, sometimes, when he cannot avoid his rut. But she does not seem to actually be in heat yet. Only on the verge of it.

He waits, as the breeze ruffles the sweet grass by his boots. Observing more about the woman. There is a certain surprising sharpness to her features; elegant cheekbones and long legs, ill-suited to the plain servants’ attire in a way that is rare for Sylaise’s lands. Likely, then, she was one of many servants called in at short notice, to fit the need for staff in the name of this event. Her hair is tightly bound – to further deter the spread of pheromones – and she looks somewhat damp, as if recently doused in a pitched of water.

That might explain why her masking scents failed.

After a few moments, her breaths seem to even out. She slumps onto the grass. Dirthamen is not certain if she is bowing, or if her knees have given out.

“Are you alright?” he finally asks.

The question earns him a perplexed look.

“Yes, my lord. Of course,” the servant says.

“Was that experience distressing for you?” he asks. He wishes to know, for certain. His brother is often wrong about things. It is not a bad idea to try to verify his assertions, from time to time.

“Was that…? You mean, the alpha b… uh. Person. Alpha person trying to force themselves on me? Was that _distressing?_ ” the woman wonders.

Dirthamen inclines his head.

There is a long pause, as the question seems to provoke a wide arrange of emotions. Before, at length, the servant’s features smooth out, and she bows in a way that is unmistakable.

“I would never object to doing my duties for the empire, my lord. But yes, I was distressed. I apologize if it disturbed you,” she finally says.

“Apologies are unnecessary,” Dirthamen tells her. “Is it normal for you to feel distress under such circumstances?” he asks. The question earns him a bark of laughter, though it does not seem to be the pleased sort. The emotions whirling around the servant are complex, but seem to be comprised largely of fear, uncertainty, and other more ambiguously visceral sentiments. Yet most do seem familiar to him, especially in this context.

He wonders if he _has_ found someone like himself.

“Of course it is!” the servant finally says. The response seems to burst from her with a spark of fearful anger. “Do you think I want any random alpha who catches wind of me to be pawing me in the bushes all evening? I avoid places like this just so I can a few days without having some flea-bitten bastard take my ‘fragrance’ as an invitation to touch me!”

Dirthamen blinks, behind his mask.

The servant pales a little; her hands clench atop the grass, and her fear resumes its post as the dominant emotion.

She bows.

“Forgive me, my lord, I have been over-stressed,” she says.

“Apologies remain unnecessary,” Dirthamen replies. “Thank you. That was very helpful information. I am sorry you endured this unpleasantness. The alcove beneath the stairs is a sufficient hiding place, if you would care to spend the remainder of the party in seclusion. I must go back, now. It is nearly done with, and my mother will know if I send a decoy to end out the evening. But I will make certain you are not punished.”

The servant blinks at him.

Dirthamen finds himself wishing that he could stay and ask more questions. And perhaps offer up some form of comfort, though he himself has never found a comfort sufficient to these types of sentiments, and situations.

Still.

“What is your name?” he asks, before he goes.

“…Selene,” the servant replies.

Selene.

He will remember that, he thinks.


	2. Part Two

The alcove under the stairs does turn out to be a sufficient hiding place, as promised. Still, Selene spends her time there on high alert, ready to shove a spell in the face of any other alpha that may try and intrude on her.

It is exhausting.

By the time the party is over and Selene feels safe enough to drop off the tray and the contents of it back in the kitchen, her vision is already starting to get a bit soft around the edges. She rushes home, taking each shortcut she can recall. A few people glance at her, and a few scents nearly overpower her, but she manages to stumble into her parents home in the upper Sylaise districts without any additional confrontations.

Her mother calls out to her through her haze while she is making her way up the stairs. Asks what happened to her perfume, the one they had crafted specifically _for_ her. Selene lets out a sigh, ready for the oncoming guilt trip.

“There was an accident with another member of the kitchen staff,” she mumbles.

She can hear his father scoff from his work table “You were foolish enough to mis-speak to someone above your rank then I assume.”

Selene thinks briefly of the younger elf in the kitchen, and the older staff woman who had shifted to force when her verbal coercion’s fell flat. The anger in her eyes when Selene had blocked her path as the other elf ran off with a tray of drinks on their route before she could catch them. The pitcher of water she had poured over Selene, washing away most of the flowery scent meant to overpower her own oncoming heat. The way it had drenched her uniform and forced her into another that had not suited her as well, thus relegating her to her route through the gardens rather than the main halls.

“You know me,” she shrugs, fighting through the fog that envelops her with the memory of Lord Dirthamens scent.

Not nearly as unpleasant as she had thought it would be. Likely though, that is a misinterpretation on her part, this close to her heat.

She can feel it already, rising beneath her skin as she bites back a quiet whimper and finishes her ascent to her own room. Her mother mentions that she and Elrogathe will erect the wards around the house, so Selene need only deal with the ones in her own rooms. She silently thanks her, letting out a breath of relief at the familiar smells, her blankets and pillows already gathered in a thick pile in the corner. Selene eyes it longingly while pulling at the wards, reinforcing the ones near her windows especially. Flames begin to pull from her fingertips and she hurries, trying to finish before she loses her ability to focus on anything at all.

It feels as though it takes forever to finish, but she crawls eagerly into her throws. Enchanted long ago to help keep her cool and put out the flames pulling from her body. It is more than a little unusual for most omegas to have such an extreme reaction, she knows. But that is why she prefers to spend most of her heats in the dreaming, anyways. Her first cycle she had nearly burnt down the garden, taking out a large plot of her mothers Sunflowers before they had called the neighbor to help ‘ease her burden’.

Not that anyone had asked _her_ whether she wanted to spend two days in a haze with a man she had repeatedly turned down courting gifts from already. Selene learned quickly that her opinions meant nothing to anyone during this time, though. “ _An Omega in heat is no more aware of their own actions and words than an animal of prey lost in the woods,”_ they had told her.

But even rabbits know to stay away from the foxes and wolves, to bury themselves securely beneath the ground and wait for the danger to pass.

To kick and bite and scream when they break through anyways.

Selene still prefers to hide, when she can.

Fumbling slightly, distracted by the feeling of her thighs rubbing against each other beneath the cool chill of the blankets, she uncorks the first vial. There are several laid out beside her, each stronger than the last. A way to measure how intense her cycles are, in an effort to control them. Normally, she does not have to take more than two, but she has readied them up to a fifth level, a potion potent enough to slip her practically into a coma if necessary. But she swallows the ill tasting liquid, mind swirling with thoughts of men who reek of mint and snow over a hint of lavender.

Not at all as unpleasant as she thought it would be.

–

The dreaming is as she recalls it. Gardens and open skies shifting around her as she moves through it, deeper than she can on a normal night. The influence of the liquid keeping her from slipping back into the waking even as she steps from cloud to cloud. A spirit of Desire drifts past, stopping for a conversation she can’t quite make the words out for, but she remembers laughing. Remembers dancing, and feeling at ease for the first time in centuries.

And then she wakes up.

Her skin is on fire, _actually_ on fire, white hot and blinding. She has a moment of clarity and is thankful that she splurged for the fire proof material on top of the enchantments, even if they were not technically 'in-season’ at the time. Her thighs rub together again and she lets out a moan, back arching while her body cries out for touch, for satisfaction, for _help._

Selene fights it as best she can, reaching desperately for the next vial. Eager to avoid this mess and ease back into the dreaming. It slips from her fingers, wet with sweat and lets out a soft chime as it rolls into the leg of her desk.

 _Too far_ , she thinks. But taking the third runs the risk of addiction and dependence, that each time she will have to continue going farther and farther until one day she will no longer wake.

So she opts to go after it, convincing herself that she will be quick. She will be quick and nimble and it will be fine.

Selene reluctantly pulls herself from her covers, crawling across the floor towards the vial. The carpet beneath her knees is scratchy and rough, and feels like it is clawing at her skin as she moves through it. Her breathing becomes heavier, the fog rising as her core begins to feel like it is burning.

Perhaps it is, she thinks bitterly.

She could ease it. She could be quick and purposeful, and push herself over that oh-so-tantalizing edge just to clear her head. It could refocus her, and then she could nab the vial and devour its contents before the next wave struck.

But that is wrong, the logical part of her knows. If she gives in, if she touches herself now she will not stop until it has passed. There is no break between the waves, they will cover her and drag her down and down and down until she is lost and drowned.

With a surge of adrenaline, Selene pushes herself forward once more, fingers finally wrapping around the vial. She crawls rapidly back into her blankets, another moan escaping her at the cooling relief against her skin and her now-drenched clothes. She manages to finagle the potion back into her system, and is grateful to find herself back in the dreaming with minimal further fuss.

She does not yet see the ravens overhead.


	3. Chapter 3

Fear and Deceit watch the dreams of the omega from the party.

Selene.

All throughout her heat, it seems, she prefers to lock herself away and sleep. Dirthamen has never seen anyone except for Andruil take an approach so similar to his own. But she does not make an effort to disguise the fact that she is an omega, it seems. Only that she is an omega in heat. In the Dreaming, she gains distance from the state of her body. Venturing more deeply than most elves do, especially those who are Waking-born. She dreams of fields and grass, of numbers and puzzles, and that is most interesting, too.

She dreams in ways that make some sense to him.

But occasionally she slips back into the Waking, and she seems to be suffering through difficulties. The remedies which she uses are meant to induce deep sleep for intensive healing procedures, or for the preliminary stages of uthenera, for Waking-born elves who have never gone so deeply into dreams, and require aids to begin achieving that state. They are not meant to fend off the symptoms of the heat, and so when her body’s distress becomes too distracting, it forces her up again. A dangerous back-and-forth, he thinks, artificially drawing her deep into the Dreaming, and then viscerally wrenching her out of it once more, in flares and fireworks and surges of heat that Fear catches the strongest wisps of.

Wherever she is in the waking world, Dirthamen suspects she is having an unpleasant time.

He considers this matter, as he makes his way home. Another ‘unsuccessful’ party, another pack of alphas with no discernable appeal. Not that he is certain what traits he should be looking for, entirely, His mother is guiding him towards some end, he is certain, but he does not understand why she is being so roundabout in this matter. If she simply told him who she wanted him to pick, he could then decide on his own merits if it was agreeable or not. So, either she has not decided herself, and these festivities are more for her benefit than his; or she suspects he will not find her choice agreeable, and is attempting to arrange matters so that he will be obliged to agree, regardless.

He hopes it is not the latter situation.

But Selene is an unexpected development, and not one he could foresee his mother planning. He does not think she is lying when she says she intends for him to select another alpha as partner, at least. And Selene is certainly not that, for all that she seems to occupy a similar state to his own.

He thinks of her comments, in the garden. Falon’Din was wrong – or else Selene is a ‘bad omega’, in the way that Dirthamen fails at his own designation. Both possibilities merit consideration, but he does not think he will get much further with this matter if the source of his recent revelations should fail to survive her heat. And if she keeps on with them as she has been, that seems likely to happen.

A servant of Sylaise would not be difficult to acquire, under the current circumstances. Dirthamen is supposedly making preparations to be partnered with an alpha, but gathering a selection of omega servants would only be in keeping with that, in many ways. His father and brother have their own comfort workers, after all, and many high-ranking alphas enjoy the company of omegas, regardless of who they are bonded to. Dirthamen has plenty of followers of all distinctions, of course, but he does not think it would be too difficult to manufacture a sufficient explanation. Sylaise’s people are best trained in hospitality, after all.

It is still a commitment that could prove troublesome, though, and not only to himself. So he considers it a long while. Watching Selene’s dreams, until at last her heat abates. She survives the matter, although a desire spirit seems to have taken an especial interest in her, in the wake of it. A few months pass. Dirthamen makes ready to attend the next party – this one in June’s home, and with many of Sylaise’s alphas present – and then writes his request to his sister, specifying a few of her omega servants by names which Deceit has managed to drum up, and offering to pay the expenses of her latest eluvian gateway in one of her premier cities in exchange for them.

It is a deal that is in her favour. The gateway is a merchant’s gate, built for trade and large traffic, and those are costly. He attributes his selections to the ambiguity of having noticed ‘a pleasantness to their scents’, which he knows will strike most as frivolous. But Dirthamen is not known for his trade acumen, and Sylaise seems only happy to make the exchange, and even throws in an omega from the Pleasure District in Arlathan to help ‘see to proper training’, for both his own people and the ones he has acquired.

It puts him in an odd position, as he had not actually intended to create a department of comfort workers in any of his palaces. Repositioning them would doubtless prove suspicious, however, and so after some further consideration, he determines that he will have the necessary arrangements made, and then simply keep them ‘in waiting’ for his future alpha partner, who conveniently does not exist. And may not ever exist, he finds himself hoping.

When the omegas arrive at one of his more secluded estates, their moods seem subdued. Dirthamen is not an expert, but he adds the observation to Selene’s comments, and supposes it counts as credit towards the notion that Falon’Din is incorrect. Dirthamen is one of the most powerful alphas in the world. If omegas only wished for powerful alphas, then they would be pleased. But they only adopt proper attitudes of subservience once they realize he is watching them, and even then, there is more uncertainty in the air than anything.

Selene glares at him, before she ducks her head, as he walks past on ‘inspection’.

“I hope we please you, my lord,” the manager from the Pleasure District – Dirthamen has forgotten his name – says, awash with a gentle perfume that lets hints of his pheromones slip through. His movements are very graceful, and he hides his fear well. “I fear none but myself have received proper training in the arts of accommodating an alpha, however.”

Dirthamen considers.

“What does such training entail?” he asks.

The elf hesitates, but recovers swiftly.

“Omegas in heat are often… distressed, and outside of heat, must know how to please and act so as not to rile the wrong instincts in alphas. We would not wish to inconvenience you with our over-emotionality, after all, nor fail to see to your needs. Or the needs of any other alphas you see fit for us to serve.”

“These are not things which come naturally to omegas?” Dirthamen checks.

Again, the elf hesitates.

“To some extent, my lord,” he says, after a moment. “Of course. But, ah, _adeptness_ requires training. Omegas are not sharp of mind, and can be easily overwhelmed.”

That is untrue, Dirthamen knows. Andruil’s mind has very little but sharpness in it. These are lies, then, he supposes. Appeals to a story that is serving some form of cover-up or propaganda. It is unclear whether or not these are lies which omegas are expected to believe, as well, but it stands to reason that there is more falsehood underlying presumptions about the dynamics of the people than he had previously suspected.

That is… a surprising relief.

He nods to himself.

“I wish for no training,” he decides. “Your duties will be to maintain your chambers and rooms within the palace. Please avail yourselves of the facilities unless instructed otherwise by myself. One of you will come with me, now.” So saying, Dirthamen gestures at Selene.

A few of the other omegas glance towards her. They are all dressed in elegant attire – Sylaise making certain her gift meets her standards, he suspects – and many of them look uncomfortable with the situation. Or possibly with the lack of warming charms, and substantial skin coverage. Selene is rigid as she walks towards him, but does follow him down and away from the rooms, as the manager begins to instruct the other omegas to pick out rooms and get started on making the chambers ‘more accommodating’.

Dirthamen leads Selene down towards the estate’s basements, where one of his labs is located. It is nothing quite so grand as Ghilan’nain’s own endeavours, but it is sufficient to the manufacturing of his own aids, and once produced the necessary treatments for Andruil as well. The estate is old, pre-dating his days as a Leader of the People. It was once his base as a general, in the campaigns against the Nameless. Since expanded into a more hospitable retreat, where he tends to spend his ruts. It had seemed the least suspicious location for his acquisitions from Sylaise; though it is also decidedly remote, and prone to occasional spatial warping.

Mostly the harmless kind which merely turns a passageway upside-down or somesuch, but it can be inconvenient, he supposes.

Selene looks up as they make their way into the room, frowning at the shelves full of salves and ingredients, vials and remedies. Interest seems to steal over her features. Magic does not always work well for such things, but Dirthamen has found that chemistry is more than sufficient.

“What would you prefer?” he wonders, and Selene jumps a little.

“…In… what department…?” she asks, fearful and rigid again.

Dirthamen gestures towards the shelves.

“I have treatments that can disguise your heat, disguise your scent, make you seem like a beta, or like an alpha. Or stop your cycles altogether, though those should only be taken for four years at a time, with a rest year inbetween. I am afraid I do not have anything more complex for omegas, currently.” Ghilan’nain had taken over Andruil’s disguises after their relationship reached a certain stage, and she is not eager to share her developments with anyone. Not even Dirthamen.

“If you wish to falsify your status and seem like an alpha, then you will have to be relocated, as the others here will recognize the discrepancy,” he reasons. “But that would not be difficult.”

Selene stares at him.

Dirthamen tilts his head, and waits.

“…I don’t understand,” she finally tells him.

“You are to be my new advisor,” he informs her. “It has come to my attention that I do not understand matters pertaining to biological impulses as well as I had thought. But your current means of handling your heats is insufficient. I have better alternatives for you to choose from.”

She blinks, again.

“How do you…? How could you possibly know how I handle my heats, we met _once,”_ she says.

“I have been watching you,” he says.

It does not seem to be a comforting response.

Selene appears to require some time and distance. Dirthamen moves back, and sets about gathering several possible treatments from around the room. Perhaps, he thinks, she will be better able to decide when she knows what each ‘remedy’ will entail. He sets out the orally ingested ones, the skin salves and scent blockers, and the ones which incorporate limited amounts of blood magic and thereby create the best disguising factors.

“When an alpha tells you he has a ‘better way’ for you to handle your heat, this isn’t usually what he means…” she murmurs, lifting up the nearest bottle of tablets.

“Those will reduce pain during heat,” he explains, mentally filing away the implications of that comment, as well.

Selene’s hand tightens almost covetously around the bottle.

She swallows.

“I… I would not presume to insult you, by… by perpetrating…” she says. And then she looks at him, with a faint air of exhaustion to her fear. “Is this a trick?” she asks.

Dirthamen tilts his head.

“In a sense,” he says. “You will be disguising part of your nature. I suppose many would consider that a form of trickery…”

“I don’t understand,” she repeats again.

Well.

Perhaps she requires more time to process the situation? Before making a decision? He can understand that.

“You may consider the matter,” he allows. “I must attend to some of my duties. I will be in the offices on the top floor of the estate, but feel free to explore the grounds as you will.”

Selene stares.

Dirthamen blinks.

And then he turns, and goes.


	4. Part Four

Selene is stunned.

Surely this can’t be real. A trick, then? A trap? He had claimed she wouldn’t be punished for her actions in the garden, but perhaps he was trying to lull her into a false sense of security.

Are these poisons then?

No, he wouldn’t have paid as much as he had for their group if he merely intended to kill them all. Experiments maybe…?

That doesn’t feel right either.

Her hand tightens around the bottle in her hand. Designed to reduce the pain of her heats…It might be worth a slow poison if they actually _work._

Selene wanders through the workshop, inspecting the various ingredients and containers. Most of them are familiar, herbs and chemicals she had tested in her own attempts to quell her pains. But there’s other compounds and liquids and swirling energies she doesn’t recognize, although none of it reads as harmful. The most dangerous thing she can find is lingering traces of an alphas rut; a few claw marks on the walls, and intense bursts of mint hidden underneath layers of dust.

The more she thinks about it, the better it sounds. A promotion to Advisor, which is certainly a higher rank than she thought she’d ever be able to achieve. And if others believed she was an alpha as well…She could actually _help_ people. An omega defending an omega is just ignored, but if she could actually throw some weight around as a high ranking alpha, she could potentially do a lot of good. She could protect the others. Not that she could overthrow the whole system in a year or so, but…she could be a step in the right direction. Maybe she could even convince other (actual) alphas that omegas aren’t just over emotional flesh bags for them to…

Selene lets out a breath.

She’s getting ahead of herself.

All of those thoughts rely on the premise that this isn’t a trick. Or that it’ll actually work, and this isn’t some strange way for Lord Dirthamen to get his thrills by giving people false hope and tearing it away.

It’s still a tempting offer, however brief it may end up being.

But hiding away in here isn’t the way to make up her mind. She’s more likely to decide if he’s the cruel type by asking those who already live here, and taking a look around his palace. He did tell her she could, after all.

Making her decision, Selene climbs the stairs back towards what she supposes is the main level, and begins her explorations.

It is _very_ different from Sylaise’s palaces. There are few elaborate decorations. The ceilings are high, with veil fire chandeliers and the odd murals adorning the walls. Marble floors that click beneath the golden wraps around her feet, and as she spies the cloaks and coverings of most of his higher ups she feels distinctly exposed. Still wearing only the outfit she had been sent in, midriff, arms and legs uncovered with only the barest hint of modesty left to her beneath brightly colored cloth. A shimmering translucent piece of fabric hanging from her hips that sways and changes in the light with each step. It earns her more than a few glances, but no one actually advances on her which is nice. Her vallaslin is still her Lady’s, and she wonders if that will be changed in the coming days as well.

All the better if it does, she supposes.

She makes her way through more hallways than she thinks she’s ever seen in her life, most of the doors locked or sealed as she passes them. She makes a mental map in her head as she goes, glancing out the windows and using the mountains and the sun in the sky to measure where she is headed. It’s difficult, when she realizes that she is not always headed in the direction she means to, some of the hallways looping back in on themselves until she turns around. Areas she doesn’t have clearance to, she deduces.

But there is much to see. She watches people training in the courtyard. Sparring (and she should probably learn how to physically fight, if she is to pass herself off as an alpha she realizes), conjuring, meditating. Various skills being practiced largely by alphas and betas, most of the omegas off to the side with ‘safer’ things to practice.

Not _so_ different then, perhaps.

It doesn’t hold her attention long, and she keeps moving, making her way up a spiral staircase to the next level.

The layout seems to split in two directions; one towards a grand set of ornate doors and the other to an overly large balcony. Selene opts for the doors, and finds them surprisingly easy to push open beneath her touch.

Her breath catches in her throat as she spies the largest library she has ever seen in her life.

The walls are filled with books and scrolls and people moving quickly between the aisles, arms loaded down with papers and notes. Spirits of Wisdom and Knowledge and Insight drifting from shelf to shelf. Tables stacked high with books half read, tabbed and bookmarked and sorted into piles by language, some of which she has never seen before. Letters that shift when she looks at them, her feet moving of their own accord as she stares around her in awe.

_This_ , she could get used to.

She read back at home, of course. But her own interests had to be largely pushed aside in favor of following in one of her parents footsteps. Now Selene could make a suitable florist, or healer, with her knowledge of practices long since considered outdated as well as the newer, cleaner techniques and of course each time more new breakthroughs were discovered it made a suitable excuse to make new purchases (where she could often slip in a book or two of her own between ones her father had approved), but there was nothing like _this._

_There is an entire wing devoted to mathematics._

Her most frequented bookstore had little more than an end-cap with puzzle and practice books, but there is an entire aisle on purely theoretical mathematics pertaining to Gaussian integers, another on Diophantine geometry, and all sorts of other topics she’s been itching to look into. She hadn’t been given permissions to pursue these interests before, this sort of knowledge 'pointless’ for an omega. Unless their mate is in a profession that uses the topic but even then they are not supposed to exceed their mates own proficiency levels for fear of offending them somehow.

Selene is piling tome after tome into her arms before she can stop herself, buzzing with excitement about finally having the opportunity to expand her knowledge in this field. Even if she is leaving soon, she plans on extracting as much as she can in the time she’s being allotted.

She plops the pile down on an unused table, ignoring the looks she’s getting from others as she carefully balances herself on a step that carries her to the large circular desk floating in the center of the room.

“Pardon me,” Selene whispers.

The person in the center looks up from the paperwork they had been filling out, pen clacking against the inkwell as they eye Selene over the rims of their glasses.

“…You’re new.” They drawl.

Selene nods “Could I possibly acquire some paper? And writing utensils?”

The librarian nods, and hands her three pieces of parchment and a single pen.

“…could I possibly get a bit more?” Selene requests, offering an awkward grin.

Their eyebrow raises, and they hand Selene three more pieces of parchment.

“If you require more than that, we will send it down to you,” They wave dismissively, and Selene clutches the parchments and pen close to her chest as the step floats back down and clicks back into the floor.

She makes her way quickly back to the table, and begins to read.

–

Selene does fill the parchment quickly, and one of the spirits of insight ends up retrieving more for her as the hours draw on. Selene fills both sides, numbers curving and squishing into corners as she works through the equations, circling and marking ones with questions beside them that she wants to come back to. Insight glances over her shoulder from time to time, pointing out missed decimal points or uncarried integers where she was moving too quickly. She thanks them each time, before they drift off again, attention snagged by someone meditating on another floor.

She has just filled up the back of her final piece of parchment when she realizes the sun has already set behind the mountains. Perhaps she got a bit distracted, she thinks sheepishly, standing and stretching her limbs as she reviews her notes. Carefully, she rolls them up, taking care not to smudge the ink. She unties her hair and uses the band to keep them from coming apart or unrolling. She’ll have to put these in her room, and perhaps she could even check out a few of the books to take with her-

But Selene did not get a room, she realizes. And likely she will not be given one here, if Lord Dirthamen intends to relocate her.

Her stomach growls, but she ignores it as she exits the library, reluctantly dropping the books into their designated bins to be re-shelved. She’ll have to discuss where she will be sleeping with him, as well as share her decision on the matter of masking her scent. 

Hopefully he is not too busy to see her still.

She pauses as she spies the large balcony opposite the library. The stars are stunning here, she notices. The city is not as brightly lit as her parents neighborhood had been, or perhaps she is just too far away for it to bother her. Either way, the sky seems more bright than she can remember it being. 

Selene lingers on the balcony for longer than she means to, before her rumbling stomach reminds her that she needs to find a place to rest and a place to eat.

With one last look at the sky, Selene makes her way up the staircase, climbing steadily until she reaches the office. Hesitating only slightly, she straightens her shoulders and knocks on the doors in front of her.


	5. Chapter 5

Dirthamen is in the midst of reading several reports when he notes the knock, and so it is Fear who answers the door. Deceit is busily dealing with matters in Arlathan at the moment, negotiating arrangements with some of June’s associates for acceptable festivities.

“My lord,” Selene says.

Fear drifts back up to the rafters, and Selene seems to hesitate a moment, before proceeding into his chambers. The uppermost floor of the estate is reserved almost entirely for Dirthamen’s use. A holdover from its days as a military installation, as he had been innovating quite a few traps at that time, and was still getting the hang of the concept of safety regulations. Not that he has achieved expertise in that area yet, either, but back then he was spectacularly bad at it.

There are no experiments to worry about at this current juncture, however. So he supposes Selene’s caution is directed towards him. He wonders how long it has been; surely not more than several hours, at least.

“Have you come to a decision?” he asks, from his post at his desk.

Selene bows, and then stares at several of his bookshelves. Before she seems to recollect herself, and looks towards him, instead.

“If you are sincere… then I would be willing to present myself as an alpha,” she decides, drawing in a long breath, and meeting his gaze. Her eyes are quite pleasant, actually. Not the electric colour which he has seen some elves show preference to, but he still finds himself meeting the stare head-on. It is a good sign. Alphas are supposed to be able to hold gazes; he wonders if she is making a conscious effort towards it. Maintaining eye contact has often been a challenge, on his own end.

“Very well,” he agrees.

A low rumbling fills the chamber, before he can say more. It is a biological sound, which seems to be originating from Selene’s vicinity. Her cheeks darken with the rising noise, as it persists for a surprisingly long period of time, and then takes a few moments more to taper off. A twinge of hunger follows it into the air. Her stomach, then.

“I… um…” Selene says, shifting a little. “I apologize. I also wished to inquire, in that case, after my accommodations?”

Ah.

She has not eaten.

Possibly not for the entire day, which can be most troublesome for some people. Dirthamen feels a note of concern, but considers her inquiry.

If she is to present herself as an alpha, then she cannot do it among those who already know her as an omega. Not an insurmountable obstacle. The vallaslin ceremony is to take place tomorrow, once an appropriate selection of dyes can be delivered.

“For tonight, you may room and eat with the others who came from Sylaise’s territories,” he reasons. “We can begin other arrangements after the vallaslin ceremony tomorrow. We will have to seclude you until your body has time to acclimatize itself to the changes in scent and aura which the treatment will induce. That can take up to a week. This floor should be sufficient for the task.” he determines. “Modifications to your appearance should also be considered. And an alias. Those will reduce your odds of being recognized, but I will leave such matters in your hands. Fear will see to it that your needs are met, at least until we relocate.”

_I will?_

Yes. Of course. This is a delicate matter, and it would be conspicuous to involve others.

Selene swallows, and after a moment, offers him another bow. She still seems plagued with an odd hesitance. But she makes no move to alter her decision, before turning and heading towards the door. Pausing only to glance at this bookshelves once again.

“I am sorry, but is that an entire text on mathematical _warding?”_ she asks, pointing to one of the shelves. Dirthamen follows the line of her finger, and nods.

“Technically it is not ‘entire’. It is one volume of a sixteen part collection,” he explains. “But the further fifteen parts were based on theorization that turned out to be unsound, so the first volume is the only one I keep on hand.”

Selene’s fingers twitch.

“They said it was a stupid idea,” she murmurs, before swallowing, and then at last turning to leave. Her outfit swishing gently around her as she bows yet again, and closes the door in her wake.

Dirthamen hesitates.

Her scent lingers on the air. It is not unpleasant, in fact. Even with the note of perfume having worn away from it. After a moment, he pulls the text she had indicated free of the shelf. Fear swoops downwards, and takes it from him.

“See to it she does not get lost,” he decides. “And take her that.” Perhaps it would be another foolish presumption to think that omegas do not have complex thoughts on a wide variety of subjects, above and beyond the matter of their own natures. Advisors who can provide perspectives in numerous fields tend to be invaluable; Fear drifts out into the hall after Selene, and manages to startle her. Dirthamen keeps on part of his mind on their interactions, before finally returning to his desk.

Then he turns over the treatments that will be necessary for Selene’s deception, instead. And the implications of her choice.

He wonders if he would be happier if he presented himself as an omega?

But he does not think so. The expectations placed upon omegas do not suit him. A beta, then? Maybe. That strikes him as more manageable, at least. Do all omegas secretly wish that they were alphas? He will have to ask Selene that question, he supposes. It seems somewhat unlikely that they are in unified agreement on that front, however. Possibly is a thought more in keeping with the mistaken presumptions that tend to group omegas into a universal cluster.

He finishes his work with his thoughts still divided, before he heads down to the workroom, and obtains the necessary supplies. Tea, to start with. Then tablets, which will alter the symptoms of a heat to present as those of a rut instead. Salves to soothe inflamed skin, and another set of tablets to ensure that Selene’s scent is that of an alpha. And then another tea, to be taken during ‘ruts’, to make certain that however the cycle is persisting, she endures only a minimum of disorientation, pain, and arousal.

He considers his odds of sufficiently explaining their usages in person, and remembers the first time Andruil began her treatments; and then pulls up some parchment onto the workshop table instead, and begins to write out instructions and dosages for each substance. After a moment of consideration, he decides not to label their functions. That is the type of information which could easily become incriminating if found, and is something he is more confident in conveying himself.

He puts a year’s worth of supplies into a basket, and takes it back up to his offices.

Around noon the next day, the dyes for the vallaslin ceremony arrive. Dirthamen performs it in the estate’s rather modest throne chamber, starting with the elf from the pleasure district, and allowing the omegas to select their preferred colours from the available station. Most choose the same markings as before. Selene has altered her styling somewhat, Dirthamen notes; her hair is worn long, now, and covers more of her face, and she is quiet as she selects her dye, her voice low as she pledges to serve him. And then she moves to the back of the group, and does not speak to him beyond that until she comes to his offices again.

The hesitant expression has returned. And she is holding the book Fear brought her. Dirthamen wonders if she has finished it already.

“I cannot change my shape,” she tells him. “I mean, not very well…”

“Understood,” he says, and gestures over towards the basket. “These will be your supplies.” He identifies their usage as he hands each one to her, along with an instructional pamphlet. She takes each very carefully, listening intently, and sniffing at them whenever he turns away. None of them smell pleasant in their current state, though she does not object to them on that grounds, once the entire basket has been distributed.

“There is no guest bed chamber on these floors, but initiating the treatments will make you fatigued for the first week. You may use my bed; I do not sleep often, and can roost if necessary. Fear will acquire food from the kitchens. There is a balcony, and a library, and you may request books, or avail yourself of anything on the front shelves of this study. There is also a warded research lab, equipped with some basic materials. But I am afraid you will be confined until your scent has settled, and ceased to provide omega notes,” he explains. “Do all omegas secretly wish to be alphas?”

Selene blinks at him.

She opens her mouth, and then closes it again. And then she frowns.

“It is not that I want to be an alpha,” she says, and her lip curls slightly on the word. “But I am willing to pretend to be one, if it will get people to listen to me. And leave me alone.”

Dirthamen nods in comprehension.

“You dislike how omegas are viewed?” he realizes.

“…Yes,” she admits, with some tension.

“That explains some things,” he decides. Perhaps that is the problem, then. He wonders if he would have less issue with being an alpha, if the expectations of it were not the same. Though he does not think he would enjoy his ruts, either way. But that is not the only part of things to consider.

He nods.

“Thank you,” he decides. “Will you require anything else?”

Selene takes a moment to respond. Her features look somewhat different, with his vallaslin upon them. It changes the aspects more easily noticed; highlights her cheekbones more, he thinks. And the line of her nose, as well.

“Some clothes?” she suggests.

Ah.

Yes, one outfit would be strained to accommodate a long stay. And skin sensitivity is a common side-effect. With a thought, he sends Fear off to retrieve some comfortable robes and a suitable selection of outfits befitting and advisor’s rank, and bring them up to the rooms.

“Done,” he says.

As she takes her leave of him, again – taking the book back with her, so perhaps she has not finished it after all – he catches her scent again. And some part of him wonders how different it will be, without the telltale notes of ‘omega’ in it.

It will be interesting to see.


	6. Chapter 6

Selene’s first observation when she enters the chamber, is that it smells almost overwhelmingly of alpha.

She should be less surprised though, she berates herself. It is Lord Dirthamens room after all. It would be cause for more alarm if she smelled anyone else.

And she will smell of Alpha as well, soon enough. She begins by preparing the tea, un-clipping the veil from the belt on her hips as she waits for it to finish brewing. She is nervous, she realizes. What if it doesn’t work? What if it does work, but wears off in a public environment? What if it works and she _likes_ it? _Likes_ being able to hold artificial power over people and force them to do things they do not wish to?

What if in the end she is no better than they are?

Selene lets out a breath and shakes her head. Such stereotypes are no more true than those about omegas, she reminds herself. It comes down to the person in the end, not their biology. Just because most of the Alphas she has encountered so far have been terrible does not mean they _all_ are. She has met awful Betas and Omegas as well. Not all alphas are _him._

Her tea is finished steeping.

Fear settles onto one of bedposts while she takes her first sip. Selene ignores them, largely, and settles down on the ground with the book on mathematical warding she had been granted. It had been difficult to finish in the rooms with the others last night. Everyone still on edge from the reassignment and nervous about the mornings ceremonies. About the possibility of serving an unknown Alpha, or several. Concerns and discussions about what to do and where to go in their heats. They had laid out several additional wards throughout the night, but Selene is still wary that a persistent enough person could push through them, if they wanted it badly enough.

And she will be leaving them all, shortly. She makes a mental note to check in on them from afar, if the opportunity arises.

“Fear,” She calls as she finishes her first read through and cup of tea “Would it be possible to get some parchment, and a pen? Or perhaps a journal, even?”

The spirit vanishes, returning shortly with a bound journal between its talons.

“There are quills and ink you may use in the drawer,” it indicates with a tilt of its head “But you should take the next supplement, first.”

Selene nods, and swallows one of the tablets. She finds a very nice (and surprisingly plain) quill and ink bottle and returns to her space on the floor, starting the second read through, making her own notes and annotations on the blank pages in the journal. Lord Dirthamen had mentioned that the following volumes used an unsound theory, but Selene is fairly certain there is still something usable inside this volume, if she can just find a way to extract it.

She spends most of the first day pouring over the postulated theories, writing and editing and scratching and double checking her numbers. Occasionally asking Fear to retrieve other books on principles that could be applied, but most of it is leading her to further dead ends. Ingredients that are too rare to be applied in the necessary quantities, or numbers whose required inputs could create a catastrophic chain of events when they merge. 

She is very tired, as the sun sets. Fear pushes her to eat something, before she crawls into the bed and falls into the dreaming for several hours.

The next morning her head feels heavier. Her hair has grown, she notes as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her scent has started to change already, as well. Notes of citrus rising past the aloe, creating a slightly sharper scent. She swallows another tablet, and moves to the library, looking for more theories and equations to help her research.

Carrying the books back herself proves exhausting though, and she practically flops back onto the floor to begin, only to fall asleep after a few chapters. When she wakes, it is to the smell of warm pastries, as Fear waits a few feet away, a tray of assorted foods between them.

“It is dangerous to avoid meals,” they scold. Selene sits up with a yawn, wiping at a small line of drool and reaching for one of the pastries.

“Other things take priority,” She evades.

“Your equations will still be there after you are sufficiently nourished,” they reiterate.

Selene sighs, and decides that arguing with a Spirit over nutrition is not likely to be very beneficial on either side, so she just accepts it, eating a few stuffed rolls and returning to her work. She fades in and out throughout the day, and when her skin begins to itch she manages to make it to a quick bath (In one of the largest tubs she has ever seen, no less) and change into one of the soft robes Fear had retrieved for her.

She thanks them, rubbing a bit of salve into her skin.

Fears head tilts, as she works through her raised right arm “Why are you scarred?” they ask.

Selene shrugs, arm quickly shooting back down to cover the mark on her tricep. “It was self-inflicted.”

“You did not seek medical assistance for it?”

She snorts “They would have simply sent me to my father.”

Their head tilts further “He should have removed it himself then.”

Selene sighs “It’s…more complicated than that.”

Fear is silent, as Selene switches to working the lotion into her calves. Their stare does not abate however, and she can feel them pressing into her mind in an attempt to locate an answer.

“If you have a question, ask it,” she snaps. She feels guilty immediately, but she is still fatigued, and has never appreciated people or spirits digging through her head.

“What happened?” They settle on after a few more moments of silence.

Selene tenses reflexively, before forcing herself to relax and release a breath. “My first heat,” She explains “I was ill-prepared. It hit me while I was watering my mothers flowers, and my parents…panicked, they claim. We had a neighbor who had been trying to court me already, who was an alpha. A trade from Falon'dins lands, some centuries ago. Respected within the community, with lots of connections and very well-liked. Good with people, generally. Anyways, they asked him to ‘assist’ me through it. He accepted, but when I fought against him he decided the best way to get me to ’ _settle down’_ , was to mark me. I was furious when I came out of the heat. He was already discussing matters with my parents, arranging for me to leave with him, and switch my lessons to something more suitable for his own line of business. No one had discussed any of this with me, of course. Out of spite I burned his mark off of myself. There were more treatments I had to take to be fully rid of the bits of bonding he tried to force into me, but I had hoped it would be a clear enough symbol to deter him from pursuing me further.”

“It was not?”

Selene huffs “It pissed him off, more than anything. He demanded reparations, tried to have me sent to the Pleasure District so that I could 'learn my place’. As though it were _my_ fault he had marked me unwillingly, as though _I_ were to blame for the entire debacle. But my parents have high standings as well, and my mother fought against it. They did send me for lessons in other 'more suitable’ trades, and I had to spend a century traveling with a small choir when they learned I could hold a suitable tune. By the time I returned he had moved on, and I was able to return as an apprentice under my fathers tutelage. But he still would not remove the scar, because he wanted it to serve as a reminder for me of my own shortcomings. _I_ left it alone because I discovered it made me less desirable to the pickier alphas,” Selene glances over at Fear, screwing the cap back onto the salve container “Does it offend you?”

They are silent for a moment “Yes. But not due to any fault of yours.”

“Well. Thank you, I suppose.” Selene smiles at them, standing to put the jar back on the dresser. She tightens the robe around her, and prepares another cup of tea, then returns to her work. She manages a few more hours until her exhaustion begins to overtake her again, and she crawls into the bed.

  
With each morning, her hair grows longer, and her scent grows sharper, shifting from scents of aloe and herbs and notes of citrus to a pointed lemon and mandarin smell, light and bright, but unmistakable in its edge. A few nights she spies other spirits and birds sleeping in various areas of the floor, but largely tries to stay out of their way. 

Each morning, afternoon, and evening, Fear brings her trays of food to eat, and she passes her days writing equations. Managing a few experiments in the lab Dirthamen had mentioned she could use, and sleeping more often than she thinks she ever has outside of a heat. She thinks on names she could use, at Fears reminder that an Alias will make her new scents less conspicuous.

After a few more conversations on the matter, she settles on Sulahna. Similar enough to her actual name that she should still be able to respond to it, but with enough variance not to tie into her past and uncover her secret.

By the end of the week, Selene feels different. The scent of mint in the room no longer sends her senses into high alert, and her own has honed itself into a fine point, even after her baths. The new outfits Fear had pulled in fit her well, and she makes a note to acquire more hair accessories to accommodate the new length of it, as it keeps falling into her face when she leans over to work. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to braiding practices when she was younger.

Otherwise, her appearance has remained largely the same. She feels almost…disappointed by it? Haleir had been 6'6” after all, and despite her own height of 6'1” there are many alphas that continue to tower over her. But that is fine, she reminds herself. It is all stereotypes. She could be a full foot shorter and it would not make nearly as much difference as the way she carries herself.

She makes a mental note to remember to ask for lessons on physical combat again, when things have started to settle and they have relocated.

When Fear notes that her body seems to have accepted the change and supplements, Selene gathers her things, and makes her way to Lord Dirthamens office.

Just keep moving forward, she supposes.


	7. Chapter 7

Fear does a good job of keeping track of Selene, and of course, what Fear knows, Dirthamen knows in turn.

The changes to her scent are notable. Even more pronounced than those which Andruil had gone through, and sharper. He considers that this may be a problem, but when no further symptoms present themselves, determines that it is only a matter of the scent being more distinctive to him. Possibly because Selene is unrelated.

The effect is not unpleasant, at least. When she comes to his offices, he is expecting it. Sylaise and June have moved up the date of his impending celebration, though, so Dirthamen offers his apologies, and explains that they will need to venture into Arlathan first.

“Is there anyone in the city who might recognize you?” he wonders.

Selene shakes her head.

“I doubt it,” she says. “I hardly went there.”

Dirthamen nods in acceptance, but still finds himself taking a moment to scrutinize her appearance. Not that there is any fault with it, but she has transitioned from the role of low-ranking omega to high-ranking alpha. He is curious to see how she will manage the change in expectations. The attire she has chosen for the day is dark and somewhat formal, but far from being the most extravagant offerings in her closet. And though she is holding her chin up and shoulders back, her hair is loose and flowing, a softer appearance than alpha with any insecurities would likely risk.

“May I fix your hair?” he asks.

Selene blinks.

“Um,” she says.

He waits.

“…Alright?”

Her tone is hesitant, but she does not flinch when he acquires a comb, and sends Fear to retrieve several ties. He considers, for a moment. Hair growth is a not-uncommon side effect of the tablets she has been taking; he has experienced it himself, a time or two. Most of the time his hair is tucked away under a hood, and he has not kept abreast of the latest fashions with braids. But he does not keep abreast of most of the latest fashions in anything, and it is not uncommon for his followers to be similarly disinterested.

Selene’s scent is, of course, much easier to pick up on as he brushes and segments her hair. She is rigid, at first. But by the time Fear returns with some starlight clips, her shoulders have relaxed, and she has begun to droop a little with each pass of the brush. The fatigue still seems to be something of an issue, but that is not surprising, Dirthamen begins styling her hair into a crown braid, pulling the strands out of her face; and then again into a long, single length that falls between her shoulderblades; the clips scattered throughout, sharp-edged like diamonds, and the new scent in his nose.

When he ties off the end, at last, Selene is drowsing against his knees.

“I am finished,” he informs her, and taps her shoulder.

She sits bolt upright, and blinks at him for a moment. Staring, and then raising a hand and running it across her scalp.

“Oh. Um. Thank you,” she ventures.

Dirthamen inclines his head.

“You are welcome,” he says. “For convenience, we will be staying within Sylaise’s section of the city. However, it is in the region devoted to her husband, and it is unlikely that she will be present. June’s regions and servants within her territory are mostly his own. I will inform them that you are new to your rank; that should help cover any odd discrepancies in your behaviour.”

“What should my duties be?” she wonders.

He considers.

“Advisement should continue,” he decides. “I would appreciate your observations or thoughts. We will likely proceed into Sylaise’s territory, after our stay in the city. Any observations you make would be appreciated. I am always looking to accumulate more information.”

Selene nods, with some uncertainty again. Dirthamen wonders if it strikes him as an omega-like quality because he expects it to, or if it would simply seem like ordinary, neutral uncertainty if he was not aware of her status. It is a strange question, and one which, despite his contemplations, does not seem to have a clear answer.

He puts it aside, for now.

“If you have difficulties maintaining eye-contact, I would advise staring at the noses of alphas and betas,” he says. “That is what I do.”

Selene blinks at him.

“Why?” she wonders.

He supposes that is an odd admission. He is not entirely certain why he made it.

“It is easier that way,” is all he says, instead.

Selene does not inquire further into the matter. They leave the estate grounds via one of his hidden exits, taking a passageway out to one of the exterior eluvians, and stop only briefly to meet with an escort from his main palace, before carrying on through the crossroads and to Arlathan. Some of his followers seem curious of Selene, but silence is generally employed by them on journeys; and when they at last arrive, and meet with Sylaise’s greeters and then June’s attendants, no one sees fit to remark upon any perceived discrepancies.

Selene walks rigidly, and keeps her chin a little higher than is generally expected, but otherwise does not move conspicuously. Dirthamen introduces her as Advisor Sulahna, a former estate manager who has been recently promoted thanks to her keen eye and experience with mathematics and theoretical construction. He chooses her areas of expertise based on the interest which Fear had observed; but it seems to incite a degree of overt interest from June’s people, who perceive some kind of challenge in the statements. Their lady’s husband is, of course, a man of constructional interests, and as near as he has been able to tell, his attendants are employed largely in order to keep his ego safely cocooned. 

Dirthamen has little opportunity to mitigate the situation, however, before he must attend his luncheon with his brother-in-law. 

June is very tedious, and talks mostly of the large sculpture he has prepared as a symbol of alpha virility, to be unveiled at the latest party. And he also talks a great deal about the architecture of the estate, which is his, ostensibly.

While the luncheon drags on, Dirthamen sends Deceit to check on Selene. Fear is busy examining several of the wards along his shared border with his brother; Falon’Din has been making unsanctioned moves along the river again, and will have to be discouraged. Deceit flits into the high windows of June’s workshop, and watches as Selene bangs a hand down onto the table in front of her.

“-is a good way to burn their faces off,” she says. “Your equations _are wrong,_ do I have to draw them out for you again?”

“You are still forgetting to account for the variances of Arlathan’s ambient energies-” the elf she is arguing with begins to reply.

“I am not, because I did not put them into the equation and then _take them out again,_ because the display is not going to _be_ in Arlathan. That is _where_ your discrepancies are, look, the calculation is off because you keep forgetting to account for the-”

“No, you are the one who is forgetting to account for-”

Selene smacks the other elf’s hand as they got to take her quill from her, and then seems to come up short for a moment. Blinking, before she goes rigid, and then begins determinedly re-writing her equation. Dirthamen wonders if she is usually this confident around betas, or if the change in her own scents has also created a change in attitude. But regardless, it seems she is correct, and eventually she proves it. By which point, several more elves have entered the chamber, and have transformed the debate into something to do with an even larger issue.

By the time he escapes the luncheon, Selene has also slipped away, however. Deceit follows her down a stairwell, and she seems to proceed into the garden and then into a toolshed, before crossing paths with Dirthamen again. Stopping in front of him, and then letting out a slightly embarrassed breath.

“I have no idea where I am going,” she admits.

“You may come with me,” he offers. “Have you eaten?”

Her stomach growls.

She reaches up, and covers her face with one hand.

“We can acquire food,” he assures her. “I was going to head to my chambers.” To hide from June, and to send Deceit in his place for the dinner. Deceit is not thrilled by the prospect, but Dirthamen has endured a two and a half hour luncheon.

Selene bows, and falls into step alongside him. Most of his followers tend to keep a half step behind, but Dirthamen finds he does not mind the change. It keeps her more fully in his peripheral vision, which is less disconcerting. They detour briefly to the dining hall, and find a servant to send food to their chambers. Most of Dirthamen’s escort has vanished throughout the grounds, the spies going about their business, the diplomats doing their own jobs as well. But the guards remain, masked faces blank as they settle into their posts, and Dirthamen guides Selene into his chambers.

When they are alone, she lets out a breath.

“I think I might have gotten into a few arguments,” she says; and then, almost disbelievingly, “I think I might have _won_ them.”

“Has that not happened before?” he wonders.

“I once stood in a room with my father and two alphas, and made a comment on trade prices,” she says. “And one of the alphas repeated _exactly_ what I had said, and the other and my father both acted as if she had been the only person to speak. I’ve gotten into arguments before, but no matter what point I was trying to make, either I was wrong or I was _too emotional_ to be taken seriously. So… in a way, I suppose it hasn’t?”

Dirthamen considers this. It adds up, he thinks. He wonders how conscious people are of this bias, which has been built into things. If they all uphold it without truly noticing, as he has, or if greater social adeptness means they have noticed, but chosen to maintain this intricate network of lies just the same.

He is still considering the matter when he hands several meat pies to Selene. which she proceeds to wolf down without seeming very conscious of it, before falling into the little sitting couch in his chambers. For some reason, it does not occur to Dirthamen that she could probably retire to her own rooms, now.

“Is this all some strange social test?” she wonders, blinking up at him.

“In part,” he concedes.

“And what happens to me when the test is done?” she asks him, and the sharpness in her gaze matches the sharpness in her scent.

“If nothing else, I do not see why you could not carry on in this capacity. Or another which strikes you as appropriate,” he replies.

“Hm,” she says. And then she lets out a breath, and sits up a little more. “Is it true that you are looking for an alpha to mate with? Um. My lord.” She seems to recollect the disparity in their ranks at the last minute. Dirthamen does not know why, though; he sees little issue with her question.

“No,” he supplies.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Then why all the fancy parties?” she wonders.

“My mother wishes me to mate an alpha,” he explains. “I am not very good at being an alpha. It is possible she wishes to shore up that weakness in the empire.” 

The admission comes forth quietly, and Selene seems surprised by it. Her brows knit, just a little, and Dirthamen finds himself inclining his own head towards her.

“Pardon me. It has been three days since I last slept; I think I will go avail myself of the bed for several hours. If you venture into the city, I would advise discretion.”

So saying, he makes his way from the rooms with just the smallest amount of haste.


	8. Chapter 8

Dirthamen’s admission rings through Selene’s thoughts.

It pulls at a strange sense of kinship from somewhere deep inside of her. Having to go through the motions for the sake of a supposedly well-meaning parent is something she is more than familiar with. Similarly, it makes her want to take her own issues out on his mother before he is forced into his own scarring, avoidable situation; a shame that it would be high treason if she did.

Selene also does not see how Dirthamen is a ‘bad alpha’. He certainly had no issues pulling on his rank and scaring the other man away back in the gardens. His cities seem to be in order, and she has not seen anyone speaking poorly about him the way she had heard whispers of other rulers when she had lived with her parents. In fact, the only thing she could think of that is unaligned with traditional 'alpha’ tendencies is that he has assisted her in some way.

Is that it then?

Lord Dirthamen does not rape and scold and keep 100% of his omegas in line and therefore he needs a mate to keep him in check and ensure these false limitation are being enforced?

The thought makes her blood boil.

She lets out a breath and stands from his couch, deciding that perhaps she could use some fresh air. He had said she could go out, after all. And she no longer needs an escort, she reminds herself.

It is a good feeling, to be able to go out on her own.

It is not so great when she remembers that she has no idea which direction the exit is in.

She has managed to get lost within the estate grounds _again_ when she picks up a scent on the wind that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end; alpha close to rut. Her instincts make her take a step back in the opposite direction before she realizes there are notes of scared omega beneath it.

Well.

She’s certainly not going to let that stand anymore, she decides, following the trail.

She turns around a (still too phallic for her tastes) fountain and spies an all too familiar scene. A young elvhen omega with curls being wrapped around the fist of an Alpha.

“Hey!” Selene calls, and both heads turns towards her. She looks to the omega first; still scared, eyes wet. Pushing her anger to the forefront of her aura, she makes her way closer to the Alpha “Just what do you think you’re doing?!”

“Oh, do you need a diagram dear?” The other woman drawls, standing back to her full height; just an inch or so shorter than Selene.

Selene growls, stepping closer to the pair “Let her go.”

The other woman releases the curls from her grip and steps closer to Selene, maintaining eye contact as she goes “You’re the one who caused all that fuss in the workshop earlier, yes? Sulahna, was it?”

Selene doesn’t answer. It’s a bait, and they both know it. The tension between them is almost visible, and she will not risk breaking the eye contact first. She will not back down.

The other woman seems unwillingly to let go either, and they wait in a standstill while the omega is too frozen to run. Selene purposely flicks one of her fingers down at her side; and it works. The other womans eyes drop to follow the motion, and Selene smirks and takes another step towards the Omega in victory.

The brunette tsks, and wanders off, heels clicking beneath her as she goes. Both Selene and the Omega watch until she has vanished entirely, and Selene lets out a soft breath of relief before turning to smile at the girl beside her “Are you alright?”

The girl swallows and nods, and Selene holds a hand out for her.

“Are you sure?” Selene asks again. She doesn’t see any wounds, but often these encounters don’t leave obvious physical marks.

The girl nods again, and mumbles out a quiet “Thank you?”

“It’s no problem. If someone gives you trouble again, just come see me.”

The girls head tilts while her eyes narrow “…Is this a trap?”

“What?”

“ “Come to my lair’ said the spider to the fly’ sort of thing?”

Selene blinks.

Oh.

Right.

“No, I just. I…had a friend once who went through some terrible things because of people like that. So I try to stop it, where I can.”

“Sure. And now I’m in your debt, right?”

“No.”

The girl rolls her eyes, her spirit apparently back now that no one is advancing on her. Selene can relate.

“Ok,” Selene placates “You want us to be even? I’m lost. This is a new position for me, and it’s also my first time to the city. Show me how to get out of here, and we’re even.”

Dark eyes narrow beneath the head of curls, still skeptical.

Selene holds her hand out for her, palm up “Shake on it?”

There’s definite hesitation, but the girl nods, and shakes Selenes hand before leading her back through the main estate and out through the front gate.

“Thank you,” Selene offers as they begin to part ways.

“…Sure. What was your name again?”

“Sulahna,” Selene lies.

“Sulahna,” The girl repeats with a nod of her head. “I’ll remember that.”

“I hope you do,” Selene smiles, striding her way right out through the front gates with a casual wave.

Arlathan is much busier than she expected. Her own miscalculation she supposes. The capital city _should_ be busy, but she’s used to neighborhoods and back alleys and traveling with an escort who she has to keep pace with.

Going on her own is very nice, though. Not having to feel like a burden, or a shadow, free to make her own decisions about where she wants to go and when. She stops at a fruit stall and picks up several with pleasing scents, and checks the wares of a few local artisans. A few of the hair pieces are quite nice but far more expensive than what money she has carried with her.

It occurs to her, as she reaches up to touch her braid, that she should probably pick up a gift for Lord Dirthamen while she is out. A thank you gift, for all he has given her so far, and for assisting her with her hair this morning.

But what do you get someone of his rank that would be suitable and inoffensive?

She could make something, she supposes, but a nice floral arrangement hardly seems appropriate. His own potion and salve collection far surpasses anything she could make at her skill level, and he has his own tailors so there’s no need for anything he would wear.

What other talents…she could sing for him, but that’s more of a courting thing, really, so it’s also inappropriate. Books are a crap-shoot with the collection he’s got…a new mathematical principle named for him maybe? …She’d have to come up with one first.

Selene sighs, continuing her trip through the market, hoping something will catch her eye. She comes upon a few scrolls for her own collection, and also purchases a bag to carry her new items in.

And then she comes upon a stand with an assortment of toys. Simple toys, some filled with beans, some made of solid oak and other woods, and some that are soft and plush.

There is a small black raven figurine sitting on the top left corner of the display.

Selene thinks it is perfect, picking it up and delicately running her fingers over it. It is smooth, with soft worn in textures where the wings should be. Nothing ragged enough to snag on fabric or skin, and light enough to not be cumbersome for the journey back.

She spends the last of her carried coin on it, as well as a few colorful smaller glass butterfly figurines for Fear and Deceit ( _Birds like shiny things, right? Does that carry over for spirits?_ She wonders, and then hopes for the best) and makes her way at last back towards the estate. A much easier journey, as it stands far taller than anything else in the area.

She smiles and waves at the guards upon re-entry, pleased with her purchases and a successful journey into town on her own.

The sun is beginning to set as she makes her way back into Lord Dirthamen’s chambers. She reclines back onto his couch, quietly as she can so as not to disturb him and begins reading through her new scrolls in earnest. She bites into a large red fruit from her bag and finds it pleasantly sweet as she goes, mentally patting herself on the back for eating without prodding. She summons a soft light wisp to read by when the sunlight finally vanishes through the windows, and loses track of time until Lord Dirthamen steps out of the bedroom again.

He nods at her in greeting and she nods back.

“Did you sleep well?”

He takes a moment to consider his answer before speaking “I suppose so, although a few hours more would not have gone amiss. We must attend a reception now, however.”

Selene nods, and offers to change into something more Formal, but he assures her it isn’t necessary as he leads her out of the room and towards the main ballroom.

It is very, very full of people who up until about a week ago were far, far above her station.

Selene spends a large amount of the time against the walls, while Dirthamen is forced to interact with other people. It is easily the most uncomfortable she has ever seen him, and she actually feels bad. Remembering the gifts, she resolves to give them to him when this is all over if he isn’t too tired. They can wait until morning, after all. It is not as though they will spoil.

“Well well well,” comes a familiar voice from beside her, and Selene resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Look who came out to play. Not too tired from handling stolen goods all afternoon?” The Alpha from earlier teases.

“I’m sure you found a suitable replacement. I hear tell that cucumbers can be used in case of desperation, and those do not actually _need_ to give consent. Not that you care either way, I recall.” Selene snipes.

“You should watch who you speak to that way,” the other woman shoots back.

Selene _does_ roll her eyes this time, already fed up with this presumptuous woman (and who Selene adamantly ignores is _actually_ above her station) “How could I possibly do such a thing, when I don’t even know who you are?”

The woman harrumphs, clearly insulted that Selene does not already know who she is “My name is Atherri,” She says pointedly, before turning a leering grin towards Lord Dirthamen “And soon, I will be in charge of you, and thousands of others. So you should watch your tongue, before I have it removed.”

“That’s presumptuous,” Selene jeers, crossing her arms “And _bold_. Declaring treason in the middle of an assembly like this? Tsk tsk. Careful, I can hear the guards boots clacking already. I’d bet they’re coming for your head, although I hear June has a particular fondness for reusing pieces in his own creations. Perhaps you’d make a nice urinal, hm?”

“Why you little-” Atherri turns, hand raised, and Selene raises an eyebrow, exerting her own aura outwards until Atherri remembers where they are and drops it.

Atherri lets out a casual scoff, straightening her shoulder and attempting to regain her composure “I would never commit an act of treason. There’s no need for such crassness.”

“Oh? Hoping they’ll just hand you power on a silver plate, then?”

“I am going to mate with Lord Dirthamen, and that will secure me a permanent station far above you, which will coincidentally also be the day I will see you are removed from your position and relocated somewhere far, far away,” Atherri hisses.

Selene laughs.

Atherri looks ready to strike her again.

“I don’t actually mean any offense, but-you’re not his type. Sorry. Try someone else, maybe,” Selene offers.

“Oh, and I suppose _you_ are?” Atherri derides. “That is why you’re here after all, isn’t it? As an alpha and potential mate, but you think some bright eyed blinking pup rescuing strays is going to catch his eye? _Please_.”

“You don’t even know him,” Selene shoots back, angrier and more protective than she has any right to be.

“I do not _need_ to. I know his type, I know power, and I know that I want it. Everything else is just fluff.”

“Isn’t that just like _**your** _type,” Selene sneers “The person underneath doesn’t matter, only what you can take from them and claim as your own. It makes me sick, and it won’t work. He won’t fall for it, and you will come out of it looking like a fool.”

“Oh, but he _will_ fall for you?”

“I have a better shot than you, you _sniveling wretched miserable excuse_ for a person!” Selene declares, a bit too quickly and a bit more loudly than she meant to say it.

Atherri looks positively scandalized, and a few of the others that had been listening in covertly are blatantly staring now.

Selene swallows, and straightens her shoulders.

“Forgive me,” she growls, surprised at her own anger from the womans confession. “I have not yet eaten, and I misspoke. I will see myself out.”

She bows her head only to Lord Dirthamen’s questioning look as she leaves the room and makes her way back to his chambers, burying herself underneath a spare blanket and trying her best to hide herself within the couch.

She practically announced that she was going to be courting Lord Dirthamen in a room full of other Actual Alphas that were there for that precise reason.

  
“That probably could have gone better,” she groans out loud to herself.


	9. Chapter 9

Selene’s outburst is surprising, but Dirthamen does not actually hear the content to it; only the raised notes of her displeasure, and then the subsequent murmuring of the rest of the reception. 

He looks curiously towards the disturbance, and wonders at the cause. But before his intervention seems necessary, Selene makes a polite apology, and then nods to him, before abandoning the gathering.

He wishes he could do the same, in fact. But June would likely protest if he tries to leave before at least another house has passed.

“One of yours?” June asks. Or drawls, more like.

“Yes,” Dirthamen confirms. “Advisor Sulahna. She is new to her rank.”

“Ah, the brazen one making her mark on the workshop,” June recalls. “She is making an impression. Some of my people were commenting on her arguments today – she is young, I take it?”

“I do not actually know,” Dirthamen admits.

His brother-in-law tsk’s.

“I suppose it could also be the headiness of a promotion. If she starts actually clawing at the other alphas, she will not be welcome at further events. A little posturing is to be expected, but Sylaise prefers these things to be bloodless; and I am inclined to agree,” June lectures, and Dirthamen is expecting it when he then diverts the conversation into vague ruminations on the value of beta indifference to such things.

It is a relief when June ends that conversation and advises him to mingle, instead, but then he finds himself faced with the prevailing awkwardness of talking to the alphas at the gathering. This is not even the actual party, and there are far few here than will be at that event. But there are still many faces and names and scents. Some are wearing perfumes to mask things, a little. Whereas others seem to have forgone bathing for several days, in hopes of heightening their sharp alpha musks. A female alpha near to rut approaches him, and is bold enough to touch his forearm.

He takes a step back.

“My lord,” the alpha says. “Do you remember me? I am Atherri. I was at the party in Soval, several months ago.”

“Ah,” Dirthamen replies.

He does not recollect her, but then, he had met many alphas that evening; and the most prominent memory of it has been his introduction to Selene, and the ideas it subsequently inspired.

“Are all the alphas in your territory so… volatile, as that one I saw earlier?” Atherri asks him, leaning closer. Her scent is strong enough to border on impolite, particularly in combination with her violations of his personal space. But she is skirting the very edges of what he knows he can object to – no longer touching him, and not challenging him.

“No,” he answers. “They have differing personalities. I believe that is common. Excuse me.”

He makes his way over to the refreshment table, and one of his attendants steps in, and strikes up a conversation with Atherri in his place. Dirthamen makes a mental note of them, and resolves to have some extra credits allotted to them for spending in the city. He manages to successfully make small talk with a visiting alpha from Elgar’nan’s estate – a high-ranking peacekeeper – and then muddles his way through a few more introductions and re-introductions, before Atherri approaches him again.

She keeps more of a distance this time, at least.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she says. “I was unconscionably forward before. I have never pursued a fellow alpha; but it is a prospect I find most intriguing. Tell me, what interests you in the notion? What are you looking for?”

Dirthamen considers.

“Nothing,” he says.

Atherri laughs. But she does not actually seem to be amused.

“Then why the parties?” she wonders. “Unless you mean that you are not looking, but rather, hoping to be pursued. I am an expert at pursuit, you know. One of my mentors was a high-ranking hunter of Andruil’s. Andruil’s alphas are very ardent in their hunts – all kinds of hunts.”

“Yes. It is troubling,” he notes.

Atherri nods.

“Of course, of course. I am very glad to be among the more refined company of my Lady’s followers,” she says, as if they are in perfect agreement on all points. Which seems strange to Dirthamen, because he is fairly certain she was implying something else earlier. But perhaps he has misread the situation.

“I am possessed of many softer traits, as well,” Atherri informs him. “Singing, for example. Do you enjoy music?”

“Yes,” Dirthamen offers. “Pardon me.”

He actively seeks out June, then. If nothing else, very few of the alphas in attendance will interrupt their conversations, and by the time he has finished yet another discussion on structural supports and building regulations, it is late enough that he can excuse himself from the rest of the event. Which he does, with no small amount of relief.

He retreats back to his chambers, leaving most of his attendants to soothe any offended parties. When he gets into the room, Selene is there. Sitting on the couch again, with her jacket off and a book in hand. She projects a small amount of guilt, when she sees him.

“I did badly,” she surmises.

Dirthamen considers.

“No one seems to doubt that you are an alpha,” he informs her. “They only think you have not been properly trained in etiquette befitting your rank. Which is true. June has requested that you do not actually engage in physical challenges – I would say that is a fair recommendation.” A thought then occurs to him.

“What upset you to begin with?” he wonders.

Selene hesitates.

“That alpha-“ she begins, and then stops. “I suppose it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that there a lot of social climbers and rapists in that crowd?”

“It would not,” he confirms.

“I caught one of them trying to force things with an omega earlier,” Selene explains. “And then she was at the party, and I lost my temper.”

“Ah,” he says.

“I did not actually mean to formally declare an attempt to court you,” she informs him.

His eyebrows shoot upwards, and he stills a moment. He had not realized that _that_ was what she had done, but it would explain the degree and tone of the stir which had been caused, and the levels of amusement involved. Of course, he supposes, it would be assumed that most at these events are attending out of some level of interest in their stated goal. Though he knows that there are alphas who are there with other aims in mind; much can be gained from forging good social connections in the upper ranks, after all.

But it occurs to him, as well, that Selene… would not be the worst possible pursuer, all things considered.

If she had not intended to make such a declaration, however, perhaps it would be discourteous of him to pursue that line of thought?

After an awkward moment of silence drags on, Selene gets up. She plucks up a small parcel from the table beside her.

“Here,” she tells him, and hands it to him.

Dirthamen blinks.

“What is this?” he wonders.

“A gift,” she says.

She… obtained a gift for him? He feels a moment of bewilderment. That is a fairly aggressive act of courtship, particularly so if she does not sincerely intend to court him. Although, maybe she does not mean the gift in the courtship sense? He often has difficulties inferring these things. After a moment more, he carefully unwraps the item, to reveal a tiny raven statuette. Well-crafted, although not done in particularly ostentatious materials. There are no rubies or emeralds, and the body appears to be glass rather than onyx or woven shadow.

…He likes it, he thinks.

“Thank you,” he offers.

“It made me think of you,” Selene tells him. Which is a line that, he is fairly certain, might be lifted straight from an alpha’s guide to courting.

So she _is_ pursuing him, then?

Under the guise of an alpha?

What an unexpected thing to do with her newfound position. Dirthamen supposes he should ask about her motivations and impulses, to better understand them. But he finds himself inexplicably tongue-tied, as he continues to peer down at the little raven.

“Do you like it?” Selene finally asks him, when the quiet has probably drawn on for too long, again.

“Yes,” he manages.

She smiles.

“Good,” she says. “It was very interesting to venture out into the city on my own.”

Dirthamen swallows, and carefully sets the little raven onto one of the nicer end tables in the room.

“How so?” he wonders. This is firmer ground, it seems.

Selene contemplates her answer.

“I have never been without an escort before,” she says. “And I have never gone into the main streets or market, either. It was very crowded. But no one bothered me. No one asked what I thought I was doing, or where I was going, or if I needed help getting there. I could just go where I pleased and look at what I liked.” She seems very taken with the idea. Dirthamen supposes it makes sense. If one does not assume that omegas are constantly insecure – but rather, that it is the threat of predation which makes them feel insecure – then being able to move freely… would not be distressing at all.

“Do you resent alphas?” he wonders.

She pauses. Hesitates. And then shrugs.

“Sometimes, yes,” she decides.

That also makes sense, then.

The conversation tapers off, somewhat. Selene pulls at some of the clips in her hair, and Dirthamen wonders if the weight has become uncomfortable. After a few more moments, he ventures a little closer. Braiding her hair was pleasant, but it is apparent that Selene is not quite sure of where all the loops and ties in her current arrangement are.

That is probably a good metaphor for their situation on the whole.

“May I help?” he offers.

She regards him for a moment. Her cheeks darken a little, but at length, she nods in agreement.

They settle down by one of the chairs in the main room of his guest chambers, and pulls her hair into his lap once more. Deftly removing the clips, and unravelling the braids. When he takes out the ones by her temples, she lets out a breath; and when his nails graze across her scalp, it turns into a groan. She leans towards his hands somewhat more, before embarrassment spikes in the air, briefly, and she straightens up instead.

Dirthamen picks up a brush, and carefully works it through her locks instead. Ensuring there are no unwanted tangles, as Selene relaxes once more; and eventually dozes off against his legs. The room is warm and comfortable, but he does not think she will sleep well on the floor, all the same. So when he is done, he quickly twists her hair in such a way that it will not become irreparably tangled in her sleep, and then coaxes her onto the little couch in the room, instead. It is very soft, and very cushioned.

She pats his arm, before sinking into it.

“Good. You are good,” she assures him.

He is pleased that she approves of his hair management techniques.

“Go to sleep,” he advises.

After the fatigue wears off, she will likely experience some adrenaline spikes.

He wonders if she will take to those as… avidly.


	10. Chapter 10

When Selene wakes in the morning, she feels anxious. Not unrested, but buzzing with energy and she is unsure how best to disperse it. 

She takes a walk first, getting lost before ultimately finding herself back in Lord Dirthamen’s chambers. He is still there, thankfully, and she practically bounds across the room to greet him. 

“Good morning, my Lord,” She smiles.  
He inclines his head politely “Good morning Selene. How are you feeling?”

  
Selene hums as she contemplates her answer “Awake,” she settles on.

Dirthamen nods again “Likely you are having an adrenaline spike as a side effect of your medication. Any dizziness?”

“Nope.”

“Fatigue?”

“Nope.”

“Trouble focusing?”

“Nope.”

“That is very good then,” he commends.

  
Selene hums again in agreement, and begins wandering around the rooms. She still has to give Deceit and Fear their butterflies she remembers, but she has yet to see them lately. Ah well. There is no rush, she supposes.

“Are you busy today?” Selene asks, curious about how much longer they will be remaining in the estate.  
“Not especially. Deceit is handling most of what is necessary, so that I may prepare for the official event later on.” he pauses. “Why?”

“I was thinking on last nights events, while I was strolling through the estate this morning, and wondered if you might be willing to teach me the etiquette that I will need to know for my new station, so I could avoid…” she gestures vaguely in the air “..that, again. If you aren’t too busy, that is.”

Dirthamen is silent for a few moments, and it makes Selenes skin itch while she tries to be patient beneath the buzzing energy coursing through her.

“Yes. I believe that would be acceptable.”

“Great!” She practically jumps, before clearing her throat “Sorry. I mean-Thank you, My Lord.”

He nods again, and with a wave of his hand the furniture in the room clears, leaving a large empty space in the middle of the room. “You will be expected to dance during the upcoming event,” he explains “At the very least. It is imperative that you are able to lead as well as follow.”

Selene nods, and moves towards him, hair swaying behind her with each step. He hesitates, but closes the rest of the space, taking one of her hands in his and settling the other awkwardly on her shoulder. “You will likely have to dance with other alphas. Will that be an issue for you?”

Selene shakes her head “I can endure it, so long as their hands don’t wander too far.”

Dirthamen gives a small ‘hm,’ from beneath his mask, and begins to lead her through a simple waltz. He seems surprised when she has no issues following along. 

  
“I had to dance when I traveled with the choir,” she explains. “Lots of parties, lots of other dancers in the troupe that needed partners to practice with.”

“I see,” he accepts. They continue for a several more moments, dancing to a silent beat before he quietly notes “You are rather graceful.”

“Thank you,” Selene smiles. “It helps to have a good partner.”

His steps falter briefly at her compliment, so Selene takes the opportunity to take over the lead position, attempting a slightly more complicated pattern she had picked up from another omega in the troupe. It goes well for a while, until he seems to have difficulty keeping up himself, trying to change it back to the standard instead.

“My apologies,” he offers “This is not a study I am particularly proficient in. Perhaps Deceit would make a more suitable partner for you.”

“You’re doing fine,” Selene assures him, continuing the pattern. She begins to sing quietly, an old tune beneath her breath, something to help keep the tempo and burn off the energy still burning beneath her skin. They continue like that for longer than she keeps track of, dancing and turning and singing, and feeling lighter than she has in a long while. But eventually her small repertoire of songs meant to be danced to ends, and so does the lesson.

Selene feels as though she has forgotten who was supposed to be teaching who.

“Thank you,” she offers, with a slight bow of her head.

“It was no trouble,” he assures her, sounding almost breathless. She worries that perhaps she overtaxed him; he was supposed to be resting after all and here she was swinging and twirling him all through his chambers.   
  


“Are you hungry?” She blurts, trying to think of what she could do to help him regain his energy.

“I…could eat, I suppose. Will you be joining me?”

“Would you like me to?”

He is silent for a long moment, before he nods again and answers “Yes. I believe I would.”

Selene bows slightly then, and excuses herself to go and obtain some. It doesn’t take long; she bumps into the omega from the day before and has a short conversation to ensure they are holding up alright. They assure her that they are, and repeat that 'Sulahna’ is strange for even bothering, but she just shrugs it off. 

“Would you mind having some food sent up for myself and Lord Dirthamen?” She requests.

The young girl raises a curious eyebrow. “You’re staying in the room with Lord Dirthamen?”

“For now,” Selene affirms.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, what with the rumors…”

Selene blinks. “What rumors?”

“That you challenged June’s workers? Declared that you were courting Lord Dirthamen yourself, despite being new to your rank? I didn’t think you would move quite this fast, or that he would respond. I’m going to lose the pot at this rate,” they murmur.

Selene opens her mouth to explain that she is not _actually_ trying to court Lord Dirthamen and there was simply a misunderstanding, but stops herself. 

Maybe…maybe a rumor that he isn’t entirely single could be a good thing? Perhaps it might even get his mother to stop these ridiculous parties if she thought he were already pursuing someone, and it’s not as though Selene is not already lying to the world anyways. What’s one more, if it helps?

“…Right,” Selene manages “Sorry about that. But, could you have some food sent up for us, if it isn’t too much trouble?”

The girl waves dismissively “Fine, fine. But I want the inside info on this then. I’ll need to win back my spending money in the next few pots, so just find me before you go spreading more stuff around ok?”

Selene nods “Yes, yes, I can do that!”

The girl excuses herself then, and Selene makes her way quickly as she can back to Dirthamen’s chambers, opening the door quickly in her excitement .

“I have a solution!” She declares.

He blinks, standing awkwardly with the raven figurine in one hand as though he had just recently saved it from crashing to the ground before he clears his throat and stands in a more respectable position.  
“Was there a problem that required one?” He inquires.

“No. Yes. Sort of. Ok, so your mo-Lady Mythal is forcing you to attend these parties because she thinks you are a 'bad’ alpha and need a partner, but you do not enjoy the parties, nor do you actually want to be mated to another alpha, right?”

Dirthamen nods, slowly.

“Well, since I already announced that I would be attempting to formally court you- _sorry again, for that_ \- and I am already presenting myself as an alpha publicly now, why not use me? I mean- _that came out wrong,”_ Selene sighs, and takes a deep breathe before continuing.

“I told you about the omega who was being bothered yesterday, yes? I ran into her again, and sort of accidentally made her think that we were already courting each other- _sorry, really sorry, by the way it just sort of happened_ -But my point is, if people already believe you are being formally courted, and more importantly, if _She_ believes you have already found someone to pique your interest, you will no longer have to attend these parties or mate with some horrible stranger, and we can just, sort of, pretend. In public. To be courting. And then last night just looks like a bit of stereotypical Alpha jealousy poking through, and we can just sort of…continue on the way we have been. Problem solved.”

Dirthamen is very, very silent. Selene hopes it is a good sign, but is still unsure, nerves and excess energy still buzzing beneath her bones. She rocks back and forth on her feet carefully, waiting for an answer, before finally giving in and asking

“What do you think?”


	11. Chapter 11

Dirthamen has misunderstood the situation.

He realizes this, as Selene explains her plan. The logical inconsistencies are apparent. His confusion abates into a surprising amount of sinking, unpleasant distress, as he realizes that she is suggesting they fake a courtship. And that this would imply that she has no genuine intention of courting him. Despite the gifts, and the declarations, and the dancing – which, in the latter case, was his own instigation. Perhaps an untoward one, although truly, dancing _will_ be part of the festivities…

Selene’s brown is beginning to furrow, as she waits for his response.

“Have I offended…?” she wonders, now.

“No,” he assures her. His hand slips, and he must catch the raven statue again, before his skin turns to ice and he drops it. He sets it carefully onto the table. The suggestion is not a bad one, he supposes, although likely his mother will see through a false relationship. Though… perhaps not, given his own sincere interest in the prospect. That makes things less clear. He draws in a breath, to attempt a reply, but uncertainty crashes into him.

How to proceed?

Should he explain his misunderstanding?

Or would that make him seem presumptuous, now? After all, he is aware of Selene’s omega status. And of the prevailing attitudes towards it. Which seem to be predicated on quite a few false assumptions. Thinking that she might genuinely wish to court him could seem predatory of him, perhaps. Or as if he has orchestrated this entire situation for the sole purpose of availing himself of an omega-disguised-as-alpha, and he finds the thought of her disgust with him is a powerful deterrent.

In the face of his abrupt, internal uncertainty, he falls back into his default.

“Excuse me,” he says, and then withdraws from the main room, and into the bathing chamber.

He shuts the door soundly behind himself, and then settles onto the cool tiles, and surrounds himself with quiet. Endeavouring to regain his equilibrium, so he can properly dissect the matter, and find a course of action. Or inaction. Fear believes this was inevitable. Deceit finds it to be a good plan, regardless of the sincerity of Selene’s interest in him. Dirthamen does not know if it is wise to pursue a false relationship with someone whom he…

What?

Finds pleasant?

Is curious to know more of?

Gets along well with?

Would not mind having sincerely court him?

That last is possibly the most surprising element. He is unaccustomed to genuine interest along these lines. More missteps, perhaps. He is bad at this; on all levels, he is bad at it. The system is broken, his mother has been lying again, and Dirthamen is not adept at navigating either the truth or the falsehoods. He stares down at the tiles, thinking and thinking, until he becomes aware of the gentle sounds of the fountain in the bathing chamber running, and the solidity of his own flesh and blood once more.

He feels exhausted, again.

At length, there is a knock on the door.

“Did you want some food, my lord?” Selene’s voice asks, uncertainly.

_No._

Dirthamen reconsiders, however. He has not eaten since yesterday, and his body requires fuel. His rut is several months off, still, but he has switched to the appropriate suppressants already, and that means he will need even more nutrients than usual. So after a few moments, he pulls himself up off of the tiles, and goes and opens the door.

“If it would offend you to be pursued by me, I understand…” Selene tells him.

“It would not offend me,” he informs her, blinking a little bit. There is a tray of food set out, and Selene has changed her clothing. Her hair is tied back; not as elaborate a style as would be considered popular, but it is sufficient.

She lets out a breath.

“Then it is a good plan? It would help?” she presses.

Dirthamen opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Stuck behind the impassivity of his mask.

He manages a shrug.

“I may have… already mentioned courting you. In light of last night’s slip-up,” she informs him. And for a moment he does feel strangely hopeful again, even as his thoughts catch up to him, and remind him that she means the _falsehood_ of courting him. The illusion. It is insincere.

But… perhaps it may be a pleasant insincerity.

“If you do not feel it would cause you undo trouble, then it is not something I object to,” he finally decides.

Awkwardness permeates the moment. Dirthamen is not certain where it originates from. Perhaps he has violated yet another unspoken rule of social conduct. There are many, and asking for them to _become_ spoken always seems to offend people, on some level. But then Selene says that she will go and check on the railings – which is not something he thought required monitoring, but she seems set upon it – and he is left alone, with a platter of food and no appetite, and yet more questions than answers.

Ordinarily, he does not mind questions.

He takes off his mask to eat. It is not strictly necessary, but he finds that there is some relief in feeling the air against his face. He lets out a breath, and stands by the tray, steadily eating tiny hand pies and candied flowers until some of his physical hollowness has abated. Selene returns before he has finished, and stares at him for a moment.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says.

Dirthamen recalls his mask, and swiftly replaces it – he has erred enough, it would be impolite of him to subject her to the distress caused by his countenance.

“My apologies,” he offers. Her scent has spiked, somewhat. Distress? Unease? It is difficult to tell.

“For what?” Selene asks him. Perhaps his appearance was not too frightful, then.

“Nevermind,” he decides. “I must see to some matters at my estate, here. Deceit will be in the vicinity today, rather than Fear. Likely dealing with June’s meetings, but if you should need anything, feel free to seek him out. I will be back later this evening.”

Selene hesitates a moment, and then offers him a courteous bow. She is not quite so inept as he would have ever guessed, it seems, when it comes to the expectations of alphas. Another mental note, for his file on the discrepancies of expectation versus reality, it seems. He offers her a nod in return. His guard will keep an eye on her, as they do his other advisors and attendants, in addition to Deceit. Hopefully that will be enough to ensure that none of June’s alphas seek to make an issue of anything.

A thought occurs to him.

“Should you experience any additional adrenaline rushes, I would recommend withdrawing from socialization,” he says. “Spontaneity can be costly in the wrong venue.”

Selene nods in understanding.

“I already feel like my energy levels are dropping again,” she admits.

Ah.

“They may crash,” he warns.

“Got it. Quiet day, indoor activities,” she concludes, with a snap of her fingers, and a wink.

He suspects she is still experiencing quite a few energy fluctuations.

But she seems aware of them, and so once again, Dirthamen flees her company and his capacity for misreading situations. He heads towards June’s interior courtyard, to the eluvian there, and then on to his estate beneath the city. The pathways towards that entrance twist and turn, with many false leads and maze-like patterns, but he navigates them with the ease of long familiarity. When at last he reaches the estate, the eluvian lets out into a subterranean courtyard that looks like a sunlit lake. Glossy floors shine with all the realism of water, as he strides towards the invisible doorway. It opens into a chamber that is lined with brilliant mosaics of purple and black, the halls gleaming in a way that makes his eyes itch. There is a great deal of symbolism embedded into these walls.

Dirthamen does not actually know what it is, but his followers seemed very confident in it, whilst they were building.

The estate managers are a trio of his highest ranking betas, and they greet him silently, hooded and adorned with half-masks of their own. Dirthamen proceeds with them to the offices, to discuss matters of governance with regards to city trade, and diplomacy, and other issues which are important, for all that he tends to fall short in understanding them. He endeavours, however, to divine solutions to the problems given to him, or to follow advice where it is provided. And where it seems reliable.

Deceit, meanwhile, moderates June’s tedium, while Fear handles matters back in the territory. The two aspects keeping their distance, as all of himself seems unsettled and anxious, and displeased with their current array of tasks.

At mid afternoon, discussions come to a close, and the estate servants provide refreshments. A messenger arrives, and informs Dirthamen that his mother is in the garden sitting room, next to his private chambers.

This is not a scheduled visit, but then, sometimes Mythal disdains such things.

He finishes up what matters he can, for now, and then goes to meet her. The gardens of his estate are not as beautiful or ubiquitous as her own, but he likes them. They are quiet places, typically marked by subtle fountains, minimalist statuary, and plants that grow well in shade and in magically charged environs. The sitting room smells of late blooming vines and his mother, as he makes his way in to find her relaxing upon one of the benches, whilst two of her attendants converse discreetly in the garden itself.

“My second son,” she greets, formally, standing as he approaches.

“Mother,” he acknowledges.

“You look better rested than I thought,” she says, reaching over to brush his hood back. Several locks of dark hair are freed by the action, and she brushes them aside, too. “I heart there was something of a stir at one of June’s little gatherings last night.”

Dirthamen raises an eyebrow.

“I did not think anything too dramatic had occurred,” he replies, wondering. His mother has eyes and ears in places that even he does not fully know; though she is not omniscient, either. Despite her best efforts.

She gestures for him to sit with her.

“No?” she asks. “A young alpha making brash declarations of intent to you does not strike you as noteworthy?”

“It has happened before,” he points out. Indeed, there have been a few such instances at these events so far. Most of the alphas behind them had been escorted from the proceedings, however, and he had not cared to take much note of them beyond that.

“It has. But this is the first time the alpha in question has been one of _your_ people,” his mother points out. “An advisor, was it? Sul… something?”

“Sulahna,” he supplies. “She is new to her post. I suspect her outburst was oriented more towards offense at another alpha.” That is the logical explanation, of course. Especially now that he sees his mistake in presuming that she would be genuinely interested in him.

His mother tuts.

“If you are not her first priority, then she should not be so highly ranked,” she reasons.

“I require advisors. Sycophants offer information with too much bias,” he asserts. “But she is loyal.” At least, loyal enough to meet his own requirements. His mother’s tend to be more strenuous. However, so do her machinations.

“Hmm. And pursuing you,” Mythal muses. “Which reminds me of why I have really made this visit, of course. There are events yet to come, but I was wondering if any of the alphas you have been introduced to so far have caught your eye.”

Ah.

“No,” Dirthamen replies.

It earns him a _look._

“Not a single one?” his mother wonders. “There is nothing you admire in any of them?”

He hesitates.

“That would be too broad a presumption,” he says.

Mythal sighs.

“ _Romantic_ admiration is the context,” she clarifies. “Partnership. Tell me you have seen something, in some of them.”

“None of them would be able to withstand the backlash from Falon’Din,” he reasons.

She waves off that concern, however. As she has done before.

“Let me worry about your brother,” she insists. “He is as in need of change as you are, in his own way, and the time has come for _that_ to be attended to as well. But that is another matter, and one I wish to see you keep yourself away from. You know how unfortunate your advice can prove for him.”

The comment cuts deep, and Dirthamen stills.

His mother lets out a breath. Reaching over, she brushes his shoulder.

“I should not have said that,” she allows. “Forgive my sharpness, dear one. It is only that I worry, for both of you.”

_For the empire._

Dirthamen lets out a breath.

Today feels injurious, in many ways.

“I…” he hesitates. Should he? There are many things which could go wrong with it. But she offered, and if they are to attempt… an illusion… “I feel as though I like Sulahna, in fact,” he finally admits.

A slow smile spreads across his mother’s face.

“ _Really,_ ” she says. “I should have guessed, considering she is an alpha you introduced to these proceedings yourself. I suppose I shall have to pay special attention to her, in that case. Any partner you choose need not be elevated, of course, but there is room within the empire for another leader yet. Though you can be a poor judge of character, at times. And, well… regardless of how old you are, you are still my son, and I will not have you settling for someone just because she has managed the rare feat of turning your head.”

Behind his mask, Dirthamen frowns.

“I am making an effort,” he points out. “But there are many more factors to be considered, still, before your intervention would even be necessary.”

“A mother’s intervention is always necessary,” Mythal counters. But then she relents, and moves away from him a little. Offering only another satisfied pat. “Do not worry. I will not insert myself where it might discredit you; but I look forward to meeting your paramour at the next party.”

He winces, and sends a mental apology to Selene.

Perhaps that was the wrong move to make after all.

But his mother seems satisfied, when she finished making conversation, and finally leaves him again. He considers the time, then, and makes his way back into the city proper, navigating the crossroads once more. Deceit has had no trouble. Fear has discovered an issue with one of the old maze sites, but it is nothing that requires his own intervention. He tries to focus on the pertinent details of the day, as he makes his way back to his guest chambers in June’s holdings.


	12. Chapter 12

Selene plops down into the cushy couch once Lord Dirthamen has left the room, much of her energy drained from her already.

Quiet day, indoor activities. Naps count, right?

Without giving it too much deliberation, Selene decides that yes, naps absolutely count, and reclines into a more comfortable position, staring vacantly up at the ceiling.

Sleep eludes her, though, and her mind drifts instead.

Lord Dirthamen claimed he wasn’t insulted at the prospect of her attempting to court him, but it certainly took a while for him to determine as much. Perhaps he was debating the merits of avoiding future parties versus actually having to be seen with her publicly. Not that he makes many public appearances, but perhaps she’s intruded on his space too much as it is? Is she forcing herself into his space? He hasn’t said anything to her, but she has seen him avoid touch or contact with others, and he has mentioned being drained after meetings with his Brother-in-law. What if she’s draining him the same way? 

She has been more…brash lately, than she used to be. She’ll have to work on that, and try to do a better job of giving Lord Dirthamen his space, she supposes. Self-consciously, Selene reaches for the scar on her arm, and frowns. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be thought of with _her_ that way? He could have anyone, after all. There’s no reason he would choose someone who has already been used. She’s not asking him to though, she reminds herself. Not really. Only to pretend, and lying had been his idea in the first place, when he offered to allow her to present as an alpha. She should probably look into what is going to be expected of her in a courting to someone of his rank though. She wouldn’t want to offend him. Perhaps she can find a book somewhere-

There is a knock at the door, pulling Selene from her musings.

Slowly, she drags herself from the comfort of the couch, and whoever is on the other side knocks again.

“I’m coming, one moment please,” She calls, straightening as she pulls on the door handle, revealing a nervous looking omega. It is the one from the other day in the garden and in the halls she realizes.

“Hello Miss Sulahna,” The young girl greets with a bow “I have that book you requested.”

Selene blinks; did she ask for the book without realizing it? But a curious glance down, and she notices the girls eyes darting to the right, where there is a patrol member of June’s eyeing their interaction with a pointed interest.

Ah, Selene realizes.

“Of course. Thank you for your promptness,” Selene smiles, and invites the young elf into the room, closing the door securely behind her.

The girl lets out a relieved sigh, and then a low whistle as she looks around “Swanky,” she notes.

Selene snorts “I suppose it would be strange if it weren’t. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, mostly” she answers “They’ve been tailing me for a few floors now, so I thought I’d take you up on your offer of safety.”

“Well, I hadn’t actually invited you into my rooms-”

The girls frowns, and Selene raises her hands placatingly “But this is fine, of course. What is your name, by the way? I’m afraid I never caught it.”

“Oh. I’m Daru.”

Selene nods “It’s nice to meet you. Did you actually bring me a book, Daru?”

“Technically, it’s supposed to go down to the workshop, but if you want to check it out, here,” she says, tossing it to Selene who almost drops it.

Selene frowns “Shouldn’t you be headed that way then? I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”

Daru just waves dismissively “It’ll be hours before anyone gets their head out of their project and notices the book hasn’t arrived.”

Selene raises an eyebrow “And how long were you planning on hiding here, then?”

“Until the patrols change, at least.”

Selene hums beneath her breath, keeping an eye on Daru as she explores the open floor plan and admires the view in the windows. Flipping through the book while Daru snacks on the leftovers from the food tray.

She pauses when Daru goes to open the door to Lord Dirthamens sleeping area “Don’t go in there,” Selene warns. 

Daru pauses “Why not?”

“That’s where he sleeps, and I don’t think he’d appreciate anyone going in without his explicit permission.”

The girls curls bounce against her head as she lets out an over dramatic sigh “Fiiiiiine.”

Selene just shakes her head and seats herself back onto the couch with the book. After a few minutes she feels the dip in the cushion from the added weight.

“Can you actually understand that stuff?” Daru asks.

“Some of it,” Selene nods. “You?”

Darus nose scrunches “Nah. That stuffs not interesting to me, I like things that matter.”

Selene scoffs “This stuff _does_ matter.”

“I’m never going to need to know how to calculate any of the crap they talk about in that book nearly so much as I’m going to need to know which houses are having spats, or which higher-ups will be offended if their room is facing the wrong direction,” Daru dismisses.

Selene frowns “Well. I suppose different life styles afford for different interests. You find that sort of thing compelling?”

“Sure,” Daru explains “People are interesting. Numbers are all the same, _people_ change and that makes them loads more fascinating.”

Selene yawns “I suppose that is one perspective.”

“You tired?”

Selene waves dismissively “S'fine.”

“It’s those books, putting you to sleep from being so unbearably boring,” Daru teases.

Selene laughs “I promise that’s not it.”

Daru shrugs, the loose sleeve falling from her shoulder. Selenes eyes dart to the deep purple marks on it and frowns.

“How long have you had those?” Selene asks in a sharper tone than she means to. It makes Daru shrink back slightly, and Selene feels instantly guilty. She needs to get a hold of her emotions, and soon.

Daru just shrugs again “ A while?”

“Are there more?”

“Yeah,”

“Why haven’t you seen a healer?” Selene demands.

“Haven’t gotten around to it is all.”

Selene huffs. “Take off your shirt, I’ll be right back.”

She makes her way into Lord Dirthamens room, making a mental note to apologize to him for intruding when he returns, and taking out a few familiar things from his stores that she can use to make a balm.

When she emerges back into the living room, there is a sharp note of panic coming from Daru, who is sitting with her arms around herself and facing the couch.

Selene sighs, recognizing the terror of being alone with an alpha, and remembers that she is no longer considered a healer. “I’m sorry,” Selene offers.

Daru doesn’t turn around, or answer.

“I’m not going to do anything inappropriate. If you get uncomfortable, say so, and I will stop immediately. You have my word,” Selene informs her in low, calming tones as she makes her way slowly back towards the couch.

Daru glances nervously over her shoulder, but the panic in the air abates by the time she is seated beside her. “Can you turn for me? I’ll start with your back,” Selene hums.

Daru moves as instructed after only a few more minutes of hesitation, and Selene begins working the salve into her skin. The bruises lighten, but Selene notes with a hint of anger that she promptly squashes that there are multiple layers of them beneath the girls skin. She begins slowly adding her magic into her touch, lifting and dispersing the tension and blood until no marks remain.

“Ok, now your arm,” Selene requests. This time, there is no hesitation, and her aura is actually calm as she extends her arm for better access. The process takes several hours, and by the end of it Selene feels almost entirely drained, but there are no more signs of harm or abuse on Daru’s skin.

“How do you feel?” She asks.

“Like new. How did you…I didn’t know alphas could do things like this.”

“My father was a beta,” Selene answers. It’s not a lie, it just…has no actual bearing on the current situation.

Daru seems satisfied with the answer though, slipping her shirt back on. “Thank you,” She offers, giving Selene her first sincere smile since they met.

  
“It was no problem. Don’t go spreading it around though, ok?”

She nods, curls leaping against her head with the motion. Daru stands then, and stretches. “The patrol should have changed by now. I’ll be on my way.” a pause. “Thank you, Miss Sulhana. Again.”

“Again, it was no problem, Daru. Please take care of yourself,” Selene smiles, silently grateful that the young girl is taking her leave. Her vision is starting to get fuzzy around the edges, and her body is aching for rest, even as she stands to escort the other woman to the door.

They both double check that the positioning has been rotated, and when they spy someone else guarding the end of the hall, Daru takes her leave. Selene closes the door, and eyes the soft couch longingly. She should put away Lord Dirthamens supplies first, though. It would be discourteous not to clean up.

She gathers up all of the ingredients, putting them away in the appropriate drawers, before a wave of dizziness strikes her. It is far stronger than she is used to, and she stumbles until the back of her knees hit the edge of Lord Dirthamens bed.

Selene tries to blink away her disorientation, but it only makes it worse. She manages to maneuver herself on top of the blankets, at least, before her exhaustion overtakes her.

She hopes this will not create an unpleasant burden on Lord Dirthamen, and makes a silent apology for the imposition.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild Time Jump here.

Selene rushes out of the ballroom, scarf pressed up against her nose and mouth in a vain attempt to keep the scents from overwhelming her. She should have known this would be an issue, eventually. Even with the potions and medicine she’s been taking, she hadn’t expected things to be this… _potent_.

The good news is that no one seems to suspect her of being an omega in disguise. A variety of people were attending the event, and even with her enhanced sense of smell she can only waft notes of an alpha coming off of her. The pain has greatly lessened as well, her usual aches and cravings lessened down to a dull headache and slightly increased heartbeat.

All in all, it is still looking to be a less-awful-than-usual heat.

Selene finally pulls the scarf away from her face, letting it dangle across her shoulders in the cool breeze of the balcony. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath of the fresh air; the chill tingles all the way down her throat, settling like a balm in her chest.

Dirthamen joins her on the balcony not long after, the scent of mint and snow and lavender filling the air around him and sending a not unpleasant jolt down Selenes spine.

She tries to take a deep breath, and nearly chokes on it.

“Are you alright?” He asks, still a few steps away.

“I couldn’t breathe,” Selene explains. “The scents were too overwhelming, with the floor moving and the ache in my head and arm…” She shakes her head, as lavender fills her nostrils and he takes a step towards her. “I think I am approaching my heat.”

Dirthamen stops, mid-step. “…Oh.”

Selene swallows. They had never quite gotten around to discussing how to handle their heats. Publicly, they are courting. It would look strange if she were to go elsewhere for assistance; not that she is likely to pick up that habit now, anyways.

She turns to face him, to ask him what he thinks is their best course of action. They are only pretending to court, after all. She couldn’t ask him to _actually._..

She can feel her own scent spike at the thought, citrus sharp and biting as it cuts through his mint. If the way he shifts in his robes is any indication, he seems to have noticed the change as well.

“We should go back to our rooms,” Dirthamen instructs, pulling his aura tightly around him. Selene wonders if she has offended him as he continues. “I will have Deceit complete the event, and he will inform our attendants that we must leave back for our own territory in the morning.”

“I’m sorry,” Selene murmurs, as her breaths grow more shallow “I didn’t mean to cut the trip short. I could head back on my own, if you would prefer-”

“I would not,” He says plainly. “Suspicions would arise if I did not accompany you for your..‘rut’.”

“Right,” Selene nods quietly. She pulls the scarf back over herself, walking behind Dirthamen back to their room and trying to ignore the instinct to bury her face in his hair and leave a trail of her own scent over him.

He has consented to a _false_ courting. No matter how accommodating he has been to her, that is a firm line she will not cross. She will not be one of those alphas who uses a rut as an excuse to push past established boundaries.

Absolutely not.

By the time they have reached their rooms, the smell of him has become _dizzying_ , and she is swaying on her feet. He holds his arm out to steady her, and she nearly melts into it. His robe is more elaborate than usual, dressed up and out for the event and the weight of his sleeve falls down to his elbow as she leans against him.

He does not allow his flesh to show often. Selene is still unsure, precisely, _why_. But her hands trail carefully down the exposed limb, slow and tender as it lights up beneath her touch. Wonderful, and magical, and she wonders if he might light up everywhere if she touched him the right way-

And that is where she forces her mind to stop.

“Sorry,” She whispers, releasing him and taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to-I know you don’t-” She shakes her head but the movement causes her to lose what little balance she had left as she falls back onto the edge of the bed.

“It is alright,” Dirthamen assures her. “Your heat seems to be coming upon you more quickly than I expected.”

“Like a wave, crashing over and over on a shore,” Selene mumbles, mind beginning to fog. “Dragging me down, down, down…”

Dirthamen frowns, and fumbles through one of the locked cabinets for several minutes. Selene watches the pleasant way his robe sways over his backside with each movement, before he shuts the cabinet once again and approaches her with a vial.

“This should help to calm you,” He informs her. “You need only drink it.”

Her head is foggy, and she shouldn’t be saying these things, should be keeping them locked away somewhere instead but her traitorous body leans forward, taking the edges of his robe in her grip and pulling him towards her. “I’d rather drink _you_ up, vhenan.”

Her words startle him, and she’s fairly certain for a moment she can see him blushing through his mask as he awkwardly holds out the vial for her.

“You…do not mean that.”

“Oh but I _do_.”

He hesitates, and her scent spikes again as she watches him go over the possibilities in his mind and she hopes, she wants, she _craves_ his agreement.

His other hand comes up, and she leans her face into his palm; warmer now that she can ever remember him being, soothing the ache in her skin for touch and affection and companionship.

His thumb rubs gently at her chin, and she blinks up at him, ready and waiting and hoping for his help once again. He gestures for her to open her mouth, his other hand moving to his robe and she closes her eyes in compliance-

Only to find him pouring the contents of the vial into her mouth instead of what she had been expecting.

She nearly splutters, but he holds her firm, regrets and apologies spilling out of his aura while he tilts her head up and forces her to drink. She swallows it down, and feels the sharp cold of it spread throughout her body.

“I will check on you in the morning,” He says, pulling away from her.

“No-” she cries, trying to move after him as he reaches the door, but she can barely walk beneath the thrall of her haze. “No, please, please Dirthamen, vhenan, please don’t leave me here alone-”

“Fear will keep an eye on you,” He says without turning around to face her as he repeats “I will check on you in the morning.”

He shuts the door closed behind him, and she feels the wards shoot up around the room; to keep her in, to keep him _out_.

But she doesn’t _want_ him out. She knocks on the door, calls for him, begs him to come back to her over and over and over. She wants him here, she needs him here, with her. He is so kind, and thoughtful, and soothing. She _trusts_ him, more than she should, and when she calls him vhenan at public events it is not the lie they tell each other it is.

Perhaps that is the issue.

He does not want _her_.

She crumbles against the door frame, arms wrapping around herself as she falls further and further under the effects of the vials contents. Her body begins to numb, burning heat falling away, the brush of her thighs against each other disappearing beneath layers of fatigue and adrenaline loss. Everything falls away, overwhelming sensation turned to a numb acceptance until all she is left with is the empty room and its lingering notes of mint and snow and lavender.

She can not breathe.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A larger time jump here

Selene lets out a long, slow breath as she stares at her reflection in the mirror.

The gown is _very_ fine, with a high halter neckline the tops of which brush gently against her jaw whenever she angles her head downwards. The gradient of it is gentle but striking, switching from a white that matches the curls of her hair until it becomes a deep jet black of feathers trailing along the floor from about halfway down her legs. Her hair has been intricately braided with ravens feathers and obsidian gems and laid over her left shoulder, leaving the long, low dip of the back of the dress open and exposed and only barely covering the curve of her ass.

She is carefully tugging the dip slightly upwards in a vain attempt to gain a bit more modesty when Lord Dirthamen enters the room and her breath leaves her lungs in a rush.

 _Oh_.

His own gown is done in a nearly opposing design. A high collar to frame his face from behind with a low, low dip of his collar that leaves the edges of his hip bones exposed in the front. The fabric is black where hers is white, with a longer train of pale feathers following each slow step he makes. There is a small assortment of jewelry adorning his person; more to mark rank than anything else though she’s not sure how he could ever be mistaken for anyone _else._ His hair has been left long, with only a single hair piece to keep one side from falling in front of his mask, done in the design of a crescent moon.

She swallows, hands wringing slightly while she tries to tear her eyes away from him and finds herself powerless to do so.

_It’s not like it’s news that he’s beautiful,_ she berates herself internally.

But…it’s not often it’s flaunted like this.His beauty is far more commonly seen in other forms, after all; the way the light curves around his waist when he reaches for a book, the shifting of his features when he is comfortable enough to remove his mask to eat, the way his hair drapes across his desk when he is focused on solving a problem. Hidden moments of charm, like precious, private secrets.

This is a display.

And an unquestionably effective one at that.

She bows her head politely, eyes still unable to leave him as she does.

“Good to see you again,” She greets.

“You, as well,” He manages. It sounds slightly strained, and she frowns.

Is something bothering him?

It has been some time since they attended a party together; their frequency had slowed dramatically after the announcement of their ‘courtship’ after all.

Which had been the point, of course. He hated those parties and she hated the idea of him being paraded around like some sort of show animal. But this is a party for another event entirely, something Lady Sylaise had deemed important enough to celebrate but Selene had been too distracted by her work to actually read up on. She supposes if it truly matters, someone will mention it.

She isn’t planning on actually _meeting_ Lady Sylaise, anyways.

“Are you alright?” She asks, taking a step towards him.

“Yes,” He nods. One of his hands moves into a pocket before pulling out a small, silver mask. “This is for you,”

Selene takes the half mask from him, and up close she can see that it’s been patterned to look like a raven spreading its wings wide in flight. She thanks him and carefully arranges it onto her face, activating the enchantment that will keep it in place for the evening.

She smiles, and taps gently on the edge of a wing before leaning forward and gently clinking her mask against his own.

“We match.”

His chest rises and falls (and she tries and fails not to notice how much more prominent such a basic action is in his gown) before his throat bobs and he breathes out a soft “Yes,” that makes her own chest flutter.

Her gaze drops slightly lower and she pulls away with a soft “Oh,” Before she can think better of it, and reaches out to straighten some of the long jeweled chains dangling over his chest. Her fingers brush briefly against the exposed skin as she tugs on the white gold, and the warmth of him brings her back to the situation at hand.

Their courtship.

Their _pretend_ courtship.

She clears her throat and straightens up, awkwardly patting once at the now-correctly-aligned jewelry.

“It was-that is, I mean it was-you’ve mentioned your sister is a stickler for details and I just…” She lets out a breath. “Sorry. Just…wanted to help.”

“I appreciate it,” He assures her.

The scent of mint and snow begins to rise in the room and Selene shivers under the weight of it-

Before there is a knock at the door.

Ah, she sighs in slight disappointment.

Time for their appearance, then.

Back to playing pretend.

_It is always pretend,_ some part of her mind tries to remind her.

A part that is getting harder and harder to believe, though.

She laces her fingers delicately through his, and offers a reassuring smile.

“Are you ready?”

He nods, hand squeezing hers in acknowledgment.

Then they step through the doors.

Together.

–

It’s not a terrible party.

It’s almost nice, actually, now that it’s not filled entirely with people trying to get into Dirthamens pants.

Not that there aren’t still a few people making _attempts_.

But she spends most of the evening at his side which deters most of the would-be suitors, and when she returns from getting a beverage to find another elf attempting to plaster themselves to him despite the slight curving of his spine she now recognizes as his attempt to politely exit an uncomfortable situation without causing a scene, she just slides her arm around Dirthamens hip and mentions wanting to show him the view from the balcony as she guides him away from the crowd and the noise and into the fresh air of the evening.

Dirthamens shoulders slump slightly in exhaustion once they are out of eye shot of most of the party attendees, and she offers him her drink in case of dehydration.

He doesn’t eat as often as he should, she’s noticed.

His fingers brush hers as he takes the glass from her hand, mask shifting to sit on top of his head while he takes a long drink.

Selene takes the opportunity to admire his features in the moonlight; they are surprisingly elf-like tonight, and she wonders if its a side-effect of being surrounded by so many people. His jaw is square, and he’s only got the one extra eye sitting in the middle of his forehead. She also notes that he is wearing a small amount of makeup, even under the mask. A dark lip and a ring of eyeliner that makes the blue of his eyes pop and his lashes look even longer than they normally do.

“Is something wrong?” Dirthamen asks after she has been staring for likely longer than would be polite.

“What? No,” She answers, back straightening as she smooths out the wrinkles that had formed in her dress while she had relaxed against the railing and stared at her false paramour. “You just look particularly beautiful tonight, is all.”

His face flushes, and she bites on her lip to keep from chuckling at the sudden intensity of it. Without the mask to hide behind, it’s surprisingly easy to read him, she finds.

Probably part of the reason he wears it, she supposes.

“You as well,” He returns, glancing off towards the view of the city. “The dress suits you.”

“Thank you-” She starts, breath catching as one of his gloved hands reaches up to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear.

One of her own hands reaches up to catch it before he can pull it away.

They both seem equally shocked by her actions.

“I…” She starts, unsure of where she’s really planning on taking the sentence. She’s not sure if its an apology, or a confession, or a statement about the weather.

She’s just suddenly overcome by the desire for him to keep touching her, in some capacity.

He blinks, one eye at a time, and the flush this time is much more gradual as it sweeps over his features.

“There is no one here to see us,” He reminds her, quietly.

“It’s not for them to see,” She responds without thought.

His eyebrows raise, and his throat bobs again.

“I…” She tries again, hand tightening slightly around his. Looking for reassurance, for comfort, for some sort of sign that he feels the same way she does.

A trio of elves bursts out of the doors nearest to them, laughing and stumbling and smelling of an overindulgence of wine.

Selene releases Dirthamens hand, and stares out at the city beneath them.

She lets out a breath.

“We should get back to the party,” She swallows, carefully re-affixing her mask while his own moves back to its usual space.

“Ah, yes,” He agrees, taking note of the trio who don’t seem to notice their presence, and are currently preoccupied with disrobing one another in the doorway.

Her index finger links loosely with his own as they re-enter the ballroom.

–

“Earlier…” Dirthamen mentions tentatively once they are back in their room, alone and tired from the events of the party.

“Hm?” Selene asks, yawning slightly as she finally removes her mask, carefully placing it down on one of the tables and idly tracing the outline.

“You appeared to be trying to tell me something.”

Selene blinks, mind hazy in her current exhaustion as she struggles to think of what he might be referring to.

“On the balcony…?” He clarifies.

And Selene feels it click.

“Oh. Uhm,” She takes a deep breath, fingers beginning to untie her braid in an attempt to fight off her nerves. “That was just…”

_I wanted to tell you that I’m in love with you, and would like to court you genuinely._

_I wanted to tell you how badly I wanted to kiss you on the balcony in the moonlight._

_I wanted to take you back into the party and declare my love for you in front of the empire and your family and damn the consequences._

“I just wanted to tell you…”

Obsidian beads start falling to the carpet in quiet droplets.

“that….”

Her fingers catch on a knot in her hair.

“I….”

The material of her gown brushes against her jaw as she pointedly stares down at the ground.

“really….”

Her heart is beating faster in her chest, pounding and pounding in anticipation.

“…like the mask you gave me.”

_Coward,_ she berates herself.

“Ah,” he says, and she thinks she picks up a slight note of disappointment in the air before it is swiftly hidden. “Yes. It seemed an appropriate gift for our current level of courting.”

“Of course,” She nods, swallowing her tongue.

“I am glad you enjoyed it.”

“I’d enjoy any gift you gave to me,” She admits.

His head tilts in consideration. “We have been doing this a bit too long now for flowers and poetry not to raise questions. But it is a sweet sentiment. Thank you for it. You are very kind, to say such things. I apologize for any trouble our false courting may be causing you.”

“I…there’s no trouble, Dirthamen,” She laughs, shaking her head in fondness and blabbering on before she can think better of herself, and the familiarity she is speaking to him with. “I would do whatever it took to stay by your side.”

That, at least, seems to have caught him off guard.

Selene can’t say she meant to say it aloud, either.

They both stand still and silent for a few moments, in the dim light of their shared room in his Arlathan estate.

“I…am going to go change into my sleep wear,” She finally manages, clearing her throat slightly and retrieving a long, soft undershirt from the wardrobe.

He nods, silent and staring and flushed from the neck down as she excuses herself from the room and enters their bath.

She closes the door.

And then slides down the back of it with a soft groan.

Well….at least the _party_ was nice.


	15. Chapter 15

Dirthamen deliberates for a long moment on Selene’s words.

_I would do whatever it took to stay by your side…_

Those are not words that are meant to be spoken in idle sentiment. Dirthamen is not an expert on social conduct, by any means, but he knows that much.

Perhaps Selene had simply been caught up in the habit of speaking in courtly terms…?

He wavers in uncertainty. His own assessment of the situation between them is more difficult than usual to trust. Not only because it is venturing into a field where he has little true experience, but also because… he thinks of the white curl of Selene’s hair on her cheek. The firm touch of her hand, when she caught his own. The curve of her dress, and the warm cadence of her voice. Hesitating, tripping over words, _longing_ for… for something.

And he must confess, he has his own longing. It would be easy to convince himself that their desires are in accordance.

Because that is what he wants.

But then, too, there is possibly more evidence to support this idea than simply yearning for it. Dirthamen could languish in this feeling forever, were he still a spirit. Even as an elf, he thinks he still might. It is such a potent want. So deep and rich and nuanced. Not as simple as lust, nor as reactionary as envy. There is heat to it, but he does not know how to qualify it all. As he hears the bath waters running in the next room, he moves towards one of the full-length mirrors in the main room.

Reaching up, Dirthamen pulls off his mask. He sets it atop his head, and stares at his reflection. There is something off, still, from the normal template of an elf. He thinks of Selene, and how she looks. This evening, and other evenings, too. The sharp cut of her cheekbones, the elegant curve of her legs; the soft tilt of her lips, when she is thinking of something that makes her smile. The swell of her breasts and the intelligent light in her eyes.

Bit by bit, his features shift. His skin darkens and his hair lightens; the front of his gown fills out, letting a pair of breasts slip through the plunging collar of his gown. His third eye vanishes - oh, _that_ was probably what he did wrong - and his features rearrange themselves, until he sees Selene staring back at him from the smooth surface of the mirror.

A perfect replication.

She must be deep in his thoughts, for him to manage such a thing. But then, he already knew she was.

It is still not an easy shape for him to hold, however. For a moment, he reaches over, and touches the glass. Sees Selene reaching back for him. Then he lets out a long breath, and shifts back. His features settle into a more comfortable shape. His eyes behave themselves, at least, but after a moment the gown rips as a pair of black wings unfurl. Like a muscle in desperate need of stretching. Dirthamen offers a mental apology to his clothiers, and follows the impulse as he lifts his arms above his head, and gives a full-body stretch. Reaching his feathers up to the ceiling, and then banishing away the ruined gown.

He strips naked. Brushes the hair back from his face. And makes a decision.

He is going to… do something.

About this.

…But what?

His gaze strays to the bath chamber. He and Selene have bathed together before, of course. It is not unprecedented, though usually they agree to it beforehand. Still, it need not bother her, most likely? And if there is… something… then…

…Dirthamen has never attempted seduction before.

He is probably not good at it.

But there is usually only one way to improve. And that, unfortunately, is to make attempts.

With light steps, he makes his way over to the bath chamber, and opens the doors. The latch is quiet. His wings turn briefly to smoke, dancing with the steam in the room, as he slips in. Closing the door again behind him, to keep the humidity contained.

Selene has her back towards him. She is sitting in the bath, near to one of the fountains, with her hands below the water. It is a treated bath; milky and opaque. Dirthamen’s wings turn back to feather, as he makes his way over to the edge. He is trying to decide how close he should come, for politeness’ sake, when Selene glances over and sees him.

She freezes.

Her cheeks, already flushed from the bath, darken. Dirthamen scents something like arousal clinging to the water, which should not be possible, unless…

He notes, again, that her hands are below the surface.

…Ah.

She was masturbating, then. A greater intrusion than he anticipated.

As if in some kind of delayed response, Selene startles, and immediate moves to the other side of the pool.

“Dirthamen!” she exclaims. “You - I - you wanted, you, you wanted a bath?! I mean - of course you wanted a bath! We just went to a gigantic fancy party in awkward clothes and - and - yes, that makes sense, I’m so sorry I didn’t think you’d…”

She stares at him.

She swallows.

Then she waves at him, frantically.

“I’ll refresh the bath water!” she exclaims.

Dirthamen stares down at the pool, which still smells very slightly of her arousal. The scent is interesting to him. In a multitude of ways, in fact. It smells very much like an alpha’s pheromones, of course, but there is also something very distinctly like _Selene_ to it, which seems to transcend the ordinary physical responses of scent and arousal. It is much more effective, but in a way that does not distress or repel him.

Before Selene can get out of the bath, Dirthamen slips down to the edge, and slides into the pool.

“No need,” he assures her.

She stares at him.

The water is very warm, and pleasant. Dirthamen settles into the spot she had vacated. He attempts to make his wings discreet. But after a moment, he abandons that futile effort, and instead spreads them out over the water. The heat feels good against his features. A low sigh escapes him as he stretches out, once more feeling a peculiar urge to _expand,_ and then tilts himself back against the side of the bath.

He wonders if Selene will leave.

She seems to be wondering the same thing herself.

“I… I should… leave you to it,” she says, as she stares at him.

Dirthamen wishes he could innately understand the meaning of her stares. She does not seem repulsed by him, but in his experience, being looked at so long and so intently is typically a sign that he has done something wrong with his physical appearance.

And yet… he stares at Selene quite often as well.

It is not because he finds her aberrant or unappealing.

“You do not have to leave,” he tells her. Careful to phrase it openly, so that he is not issuing an order or edict. Though on that front, at least, Selene has proven that she will disobey him if she feels inclined to; and Dirthamen hopes that he has proven that he will not withdraw his support for her, even if she does.

Possibly it helps that she has enough potential blackmail material on him to make life exceptionally unpleasant for him, were she ever inclined to.

Selene remains in the bath.

After several minutes, Dirthamen ventures a wing towards her. At the first brush of feathers, she moves aside. At the second, she gently pushes his wing back towards the edge of the pool. Taking the signal that the touch is unwelcome, Dirthamen leaves it there. He stares up at the ceiling of the bath, and attempts to make decisions. About what to do, and how to go about doing it.

There are some things he knows. Selene finds him attractive, at least part of the time. She is capable of enjoying his company. She is not deterred by many traits which others find frightening in him.

_I would do whatever it took to stay by your side…_

He also knows she has been hurt, and badly misused, and that she could be hurt and badly misused by his own hands as well. No matter his regard for her, or desires, or intentions. Love does not stave off mistreatment.

…Does he love her?

The thought leaves him frozen in the bath for several long moments. Struck and bewildered, because the question does not seem to be a mystery, so much as it is a box with a lid that he has refused to take off. A puzzle already solved, but as yet unacknowledged.

His wings drift unintentionally. Selene brushes his feathers with a hand, and seems to conclude something on her own.

She moves away from the side of the bath.

“Do you need some help?” she asks him.

“Yes,” Dirthamen says, before he realizes that he does not know what she is offering assistance with.

Reaching over to the ledge beside the pool, she procures a soft sponge, and one of the milder varieties of soap. Then she moves closer. Angling towards his wing, and pressing the sponge to the surface of his feathers. Dirthamen watches with half-lidded eyes, and feels contradictory things. Surprise. Trust. Contentment. Restlessness. His feathers drip when Selene lifts them. Her touch is gentle, and pleasant, as she washes his wings and strokes her hands over them.

“You barely shifted at all today,” she notes. Her voice is not loud, but Dirthamen hears it clearly just the same.

“Mm,” he confirms.

“Tired?” she guesses.

“Not particularly,” he admits, because it is true. He does not feel tired. He feels… “This is relaxing.”

Selene’s fingers sink between his feathers. He looks, and finds himself wondering if that is the same hand she was pleasuring herself with, when he first walked in. It is her dominant one; so, most likely. The water has made the scent of her ambiguous, however, and washed most of it away in the cleansing bath.

He cannot really smell it any more. Just the memory of it.

Selene’s ministrations bring her closer and closer to him, as she works her way towards the base of his wings. Alternating between them, but inching nearer, just the same. Dirthamen finds his heart beats somewhat faster, the closer she comes to him. His gaze lingers on the damp curls at the nape of her neck, and the way her breasts move in the water, as she shifts and reaches and strokes at his wings.

When she is closer still, he ventures a hand to the ledge nearest to himself. His fingers close around a clean wash cloth.

Selene startles at the first brush of it against her back.

She turns to see what he is doing. Her cheeks darken.

“Oh!” she says. “You don’t… have to…”

“I would like to return the favour,” he assures her.

She clears her throat. Her touch upon him falters. He wonders if he has misjudged, before she ducks her head away, and caresses one of his feathers with the side of her finger.

“I already washed,” she tells him.

But something in her tone makes him feel bold enough to try again. And this time, when the cloth brushes against her skin, she offers no protest. Dirthamen soaks it in the warm, treated water, and then runs it over the backs of her shoulders. He can feel the tension in the muscles there; yet it does not seem to be fear or stress for the situation that is prompting it. The weight of the day, more likely. He presses a little more firmly.

After a few minutes, Selene begins to press back against his touch. She sighs, and her own passes with the sponge become more languid. Dirthamen rolls his thumb against the muscles of her shoulders, pressing through the cloth, and is rewarded when she moves closer still. He inches his wings inwards. It feels as if they are moving with the momentum of the water, almost, until Selene is right in front of him. Near enough that he could put his arms around her. One of her hands holds the wing nearest to it, but the touch is relaxed; not attempting to push it away. Her neck tilts back into his palm, as the wash cloth slips, and Dirthamen finds himself setting bare hands against her skin.

Her shoulder brushes his chest.

His lips come perilously close to her temple.

“Selene…”

She turns towards him. Her gaze settles on his lips. The steam from the bath curls around them, and seems to soften everything.

“I think I would also do a great many things, to keep you by my side,” he confesses.

He wonders how long they have both been pretending to pretend for.

Or is it really only him?

Selene’s face tilts towards his. Her hands settle on his chest. He can feel how fast her heart is beating, feel his own rising to answer it, as every point of contact between them feels lit up, somehow. Until it _is_ lit up. Selene’s movement towards him halts, as she blinks, and stares.

Dirthamen’s skin is glowing where she touches him.

He regards the phenomenon with some interest himself.

Experimentally, Selene lifts a hand, and then trails a finger across his collarbones. Dirthamen watches as the pattern lights up, leaving behind a glowing streak that forms a shallow ‘S’ shape, before it fades. She presses her palm to him, and then lifts her hand. Her gaze seems struck as she regards the echo of her handprint against him. It lingers only a moment, before it is gone, too.

Selene repeats the process. Hand back down, and then up again.

Then she looks at his face. As if mesmerized, she puts her hand to his cheek, and runs her thumb across his bottom lip. Dirthamen cannot see the effect, but the contact feels the same. His lips tingle. A rush of heat settles beneath his bones, and his heart skips over a beat. He pulls his wings in closer. Soft droplets of water cascade back to the surface of the bath.

The sound seems to rouse Selene out of her fascination. Her eyes widen. She freezes, and glances downwards. As if suddenly realizing their positions for the first time.

Dirthamen hesitates in return.

He knows with sudden clarity that if he does not say something, then this moment will break, and be gone forever.

“…I am not very good at seduction,” he confesses, into the tense silence between them. His throat feels dry, as he swallows, and hopes that she will continue to prove compassionate towards his honesty. “Have I been doing it wrong?”

Selene stares directly into his eyes.

And then she descends on him with a startling intensity. Her lips seal over top of his. Her arms close tightly around his shoulders. Dirthamen’s wings flutter, and displace more water droplets. But it seems the only place for his hands to settle is against her back. So that is where he puts them, as a rare thrill of excitement sparks all throughout him. Selene’s tongue presses insistently between his lips. He feels as if he has swallowed a bright star, and closes his eyes when the glowing from his skin gets too intense to keep them open. Selene’s mouth slides against his own. Her legs settle around his. She presses firmly up against his front, breasts to his chest, stomach to his stomach, and holds his face with both of her hands.

When they finally part, both of their breaths sound uneven.

 _“Oh,”_ Selene sighs.

Dirthamen swallows.

“I think I am going to melt,” he warns.

It is the only thing he can muster before he feels the solidity of his shape give out. His wings drip down with the water, and his bones turn to jelly. The glow from his skin breaks apart, interspersed with dark shadows, as he literally slips through Selene’s fingers and reflexively wraps around her at the same time. She gasps as he turns into an amorphous being of light and shadow, holding her tightly, warm as the water around them.

An involuntary purr of pleasure resounds through his being.

Then there is an awkward delay.

That was… not an ideal response, he suspects.

Selene experimentally presses her fingers against him once more. This time she seems to be testing for consistency, although it does still glow.

“I ran out of composure,” Dirthamen confesses, embarrassed.

Selene’s experimental touch turns into a caress. Then she rests her forehead against some of him, and shakes. He only has a minute to worry that it is with fear or disgust, before the first giggle escapes her. A small, giddy sound, that quickly bubbles into several more, as she manages to hold most of him between herself and the side of the bath. Mirth and delight flood out of her, along with something akin to _relief._

Her lips brush some of the glowing material of him; a tendril of it by her cheek. His mask has slid into the bath water, from where it had been at the top of is head. It gently bobs along beside them.

“That’s alright,” she assures him. “This is… this is alright?”

Oh.

_Good._


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and most subsequent ones are explicitly porny.

Dirthamen likes the shorts which Selene is wearing.

They do not, he thinks, have substantially less fabric than her usual shorts. But most of it is located up high on her waist, rather than in any effort to actually cover her legs. Which are long, and pleasant-looking, and stretched out in front of her as she slowly turns the pages of the book she is reading. Her hair is free-flowing, and her top is… supportive.

He wonders if she would mind a slight distraction from her task, as he settles onto the floor next to her chair.

She blinks at him.

“What are you doing down there?” she asks, which a definite note of playfulness to her tone.

Dirthamen leans in, and gently presses an experimental kiss to the side of her knee.

“Admiring,” he says. “Do you mind?”

Selene shifts a little, and seems to contemplate the question with more obvious deliberation than she generally requires. Her knee sways towards him a little, however, and Dirthamen keeps his eyes on her, as he ventures another kiss.

“I guess not,” she finally allows, magnanimously. And then she turns back to her book.

Dirthamen hums in appreciation, and slides a hand down her leg. Rubbing her calf, and then drawing his touch down to her ankle, before he presses his lips to the little divot in her knee. She shifts somewhat, and then makes an appreciative noise when his fingers press against the muscles at the back of her heel. It is not quite what he had in mind, but Dirthamen detours, somewhat, as he settles in; pulling her nearest foot into his lap, and venturing a few more touches to the muscles below her ankles as he launches into an impromptu massage.

Selene sighs, her aura flaring a little with contentment, and soon enough he has both of her feet in his lap, and her efforts to continue reading are somewhat hindered by the tiny sounds she makes when he presses his thumb into her arches. The view is very nice, he thinks, with her legs stretched out before him, hips elegantly framed by her shorts, and her top positioning her breasts rather artfully on her figure. He likes it best when he runs his hands up her calves and she snorts, though, biting her lip and nudging him with her foot.

“That tickles,” she informs him.

“Hm. My apologies,” he replies, and slides his hands up her thighs; resuming his previous task, as he presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, this time, and positions himself rather conveniently between her legs. The skin of her inner thighs is very soft, as he slowly kisses his way up it. The material of her shorts is _very_ short, and he gets so far as the seam of her thigh before it stops him. So close, now, her scent is nearly overwhelming, as he uses his lips to commit a careful inspection of the skin at the top of her legs.

Her breath hitches, and her hips shift closer.

Dirthamen fondles her opposite knee, as he manages to inch the material up a little higher on her thighs, and press a kiss to her hip.

“I find you very attractive right now,” he informs her.

She snorts.

“Oh, really? I never would have guessed,” she tells him, with feigned surprise.

He slides a hand up her thigh, up and up, and then slips his fingers in through the leg of her shorts opposite the hip he is kissing. Working them carefully into the soft material of her small clothes, until he finds the warm wetness of her. Her breath stalls as he gently brushes her, but the angle is all wrong; and the shorts, for all of their virtues, are tight enough to hinder him He manages to get his hand up onto her abdomen, though, underneath her small clothes still. And his thumb finds a good place to sink in, that makes her drop her book and let out a soft, pleased little gasp, clenching her legs back together to try and increase the pressure there. Dirthamen works his thumb in deliberately slow circles, and goes back to kissing her legs.

Selene’s pleasure is always captivating. He is teasing more than he means to, perhaps, hindered somewhat by the tight material and lack of mobility, and the angles available in the chair she is sitting in, as her hips twist and she begins to fumble with the waistband of her shorts. He cannot quite bring himself to look away or change the pace, though, not until she tips her back, with her neck and cheeks all flushed, and buries her fingers into his hair.

“ _Dirthamen_ ,” she says.

He pulls his hand back, and tries his luck with using his mouth through the fabric she is still wearing. It is fairly stiff material – and that thought makes him consider the stiffness that is beginning to press against the interior of his own pants, in turn – but somewhat damp, now, and he finds that moistening it further makes it more malleable. It scratches his tongue a little, though, and there are too many layers, despite his best efforts. Selene rocks against his face, before finally losing the last of her patience and pushing him back, so she can begin to remove her shorts.

Dirthamen makes himself something of a nuisance for this process, as he keeps kissing her thighs, but eventually she tweaks one of his ears, and he relents and helps pull the shorts away. Her underthings also look very nice, though they are soaked and somewhat askew. He pushes them further aside, and laves his tongue directly across her sensitive flesh. It is hot and slick, and makes her cry out and tighten her thighs around his ears.

“Fuck,” she says.

He whirls his tongue, and then blinks up at her.

“Maybe later,” he replies, with just a note of his own bravado, before licking his way back up to the sensitive nub of her, and earning a pleased cry. Tasting her thick on his tongue, as he devours her until she comes all in a rush against his lips.

If he ends out the encounter just a little bit smug, he hopes he can be forgiven.


	17. Chapter 17

It is not quite a haze.

That is, Dirthamen thinks, the oddest thing about going into his ruts with Selene. Even apart from the fact that it is _pleasant,_ the fact that it is _clear_ is wholly unexpected. He had known, before, that other alphas found ruts pleasurable. But no one had ever told him that having a bonded partner could reduce the fog, and confusion, and while it is by no means a complete divorce from his body’s persistent drives, he does not drift away as he once did. He is not lost to his body’s drives.

Selene is in his arms, and he wants her. Very badly. But that is not new, nor strange. Perhaps that is the secret, he thinks. In wanting her by increments, when he is _not_ being driven towards it, the experience has adjusted him to the rush of wanting that comes with a rut. To the nature of it, and more specifically, to the nature of wanting _her._

It is very freeing.

He holds her close, breathing in her scent. He likes it disguised or otherwise, but tonight his senses fill with the scent of omega heat, and it is warm and familiar and beguiling. Selene’s lips are parted, her legs wrapped around his hips, and there is not a hint of distress about her. Only desire, as her hands roam, and her fingers slip between his feathers, and clutch his hair.

 _“Dirthamen,”_ she implores, somewhat urgently.

Ah.

He has been thinking too long.

He presses his lips to the nearest patch of her skin he can find, and hums in return. Sinking into her, at last, with a careful shift of his hips and a thrust that makes her gasp. He groans, too, and then does so again when she moves her legs more firmly around him, and clenches. Her inner walls tighten deliciously him for a moment, as her touch slips behind his ears, and her thumb presses to the sensitive skin there. His wings twitch. He bites his lip, so that he will not bite her.

She moves beneath him, and a low rumble starts up deep in his chest. Something between a purr and a growl, as he begins to answer in kind. Slowly. Each sensation is so clear and _vivid,_ he wishes to savour it. The feel of her breasts pressed against his chest, the scratch of her nails at his scalp, the weight of her legs around his hips. The warmth of her body. His wings move. Twitching, and then flaring, and then snapping with each thrust, until Selene is keening with each inward motion.

Her head tips back, and Dirthamen’s mouth slides against her jaw. Some of the haze from her own heat clears from her eyes, a little, as she sucks in deep breaths, and comes down from her crescendo. He slows his own rhythm down a little. There is no point in hurrying to the finish, for him; he will only become aroused again in short order, and the brief moment of respite is not much more pleasant than the steady thrum of lust beating through his veins. Not when he is with Selene, at least.

Selene, who has drifted from keening heights to a more languidly engaged state, now, as she frames his face with her hands, and pulls him in for a kiss. Her lips draw his own out, slow and sweet.

“Should I stop?” he murmurs, when their mouths part again. His hips rock against her own on that question, and she answers with a gasp, before wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders.

“No,” she says. “No, no, no, keep going. _Please._ No stopping.”

Right. Yes. The heat, Dirthamen recalls, makes things somewhat different from usual, between them. Reassuring check-ins have an edge of desperation which they do not normally evoke.

“Alright, it is alright,” he murmurs, and brushes a few reassuring kisses across her cheeks. He lifts up a hand and links their fingers together, rocking steadily, as his own pleasure begins to build. The yielding warmth of her body, the rise in her scent, and the way she tilts her hips and begins to gasp again is more than he can ignore. Before long his rhythm has increased, and he is clutching her tightly, whispering an incoherent stream of praise and pleas of his own that do not make much sense. But Selene does not seem to mind them, anyway, as she clenches around him and his vision blurs for a moment. His wings unfurl. Selene’s nails dig into his arms. The rush of his own pleasure is nearly painful when it shudders through him, before leaving him spent.

He lets out a long breath, and slumps against her somewhat.

She nuzzles the side of his face, and offers some soothing gestures of her own, in turn. Patting the back of his neck, and kissing his temple, and nipping just gently at his ear.

“Got you,” she sighs. “Love.”

There are stars in his skin and feathers on the sheets. Dirthamen hums, and lets himself catch his breath.

He is going to need it for the next round, most likely.


	18. Tentacle Suspension

Selene is studying some of Dirthamen’s notes, from the days when Andruil had been young.

Information that, Dirthamen can admit, he has largely forgotten the particulars of. Some of it has to do with chemistry, and treatments to mask or alter an elf’s sexual aura. But some of it is also random theories on construction, and warding, and blood magic, and other topics which had captured Dirthamen’s attention at the time. He has been assured on a few occasions that his writing is very… _opaque._

Selene does not seem to be having troubles with it, however. Or if she is, they are not issues she is deterred by, or feels the need to question him very much on.

It has been a quiet morning. Dirthamen woke up unable to keep himself in a consistent shape, and despite his best efforts, he gave up on the prospect after the fifth time he spilled out of his clothes in the midst of dressing. Public appearances will have to wait until he is presentable. But there is nothing pressing nor urgent, and it had been… nice. To catch up on his reading and organize some of his store cupboards, and watch Selene laugh at him as she attempted to help him eat breakfast. At one point she had begun throwing small pieces of fruit into the air, and a few giggles had even escaped her when Dirthamen caught them in a variety of mouths and beaks.

She is not off-put by him.

It is something that keeps taking him aback, even though it has been apparent for some time, now.

Dirthamen is relaxing on his bed, attempting to keep track of his many moods. He is on the cusp of his rut, and under the circumstances, has been doing less than is customary to suppress the sensations it inspires. Selene’s own cycles have more or less synced with his own, though to all outward appearances, they are two bonded alphas. Dirthamen himself cannot detect much difference in Selene’s own shifting scents, but it hardly matters much between them at this point. He has found himself taken with her regardless of scents or sentiments that the drives between them inspire.

A soft curse draws his attention away from his thoughts. Selene stands up quickly, holding her drinking goblet in one hand. It has spilled, he realizes. Hastily, she attempts to mop up the liquid with her shirt, before it reaches the pages of the journal she had been reading. It would not damage them on any account - the book is spelled to resist destruction; it was written at a time when Falon’Din had been very prone to throwing Dirthamen’s things into lakes and rivers. But then Selene seems to also recall that she has magic at her disposal, and she uses it to banish the liquid instead.

Her shirt, however, is stained purple with the remnants of her drink.

“Well, that was clumsy of me,” she sighs. After a moment, then, she reaches for her hemline, and pulls the sticky garment off.

She is not wearing anything underneath. The shirt itself had been loose and light, and informal, given her plans to just ‘hang around’ today.

Dirthamen hums as he takes in the sight of her revealed skin. He shifts, and feels the heat in him suddenly take a distinctive upward _spike._ The sound of him reverberates a little, and spreads through the floor and the bedframe. It is not subtle, and it makes Selene pause, and glance towards him.

She looks him over, and settles a hand on her hip.

“See something you like?” she teases.

Dirthamen blinks, and reorients himself a little. He has a lot of eyes at the moment. They all give him a very good view of her figure. Skin and scars, curves and creases. The curl of a few locks of hair against the skin of her shoulders. The loose fall of her shorts, barely clinging to her hips.

“Yes,” he says. The word bounces around the room a bit, because he does not have a mouth at the moment.

He reaches out a tendril towards her. Sensitive, delicate flesh, that is almost more magic than it is skin and bones right now. He curls it around her ankle. Her skin feels _very_ warm, and he can almost smell her through the appendage. The sharp, clean scent of her arousal, coloured with a note of _alpha,_ but undercut by something else. Different. Equally pleasant, but at the moment, even more compelling. Dirthamen’s appendage turns pink where it makes contact with her skin.

He winds it carefully up her leg.

Selene looks down, and then glances at him from beneath her lashes.

“And just where is _that_ headed?” she asks him.

Dirthamen blinks as his number of eyes decreases, somewhat. A shift around that means his number of appendages doubles, in turn. He moves his tendril up and up Selene’s leg, until he reaches the cuff of her shorts. They are not a long pair. Her breath wavers, just a little, as he brushes a touch across the seam of her thigh.

“I want to…” he begins, and then hesitates. Uncertain of how to articulate it.

Perhaps he does not need to, though, because after a moment, Selene discards her stained shirt onto the floor behind her. She looks at him as she undoes the fastenings on her shorts, and then brushes her fingertips across his appendage. Each touch of her fingers summon tiny motes of light from him.

“Go ahead, then,” she tells him. “Give me your best shot.”

His _best?_

Dirthamen hesitates for a moment more, and then pulls her shorts away. Venturing another tendril to hold her with, as his first discards the unwanted piece of clothing. He likes the sight of her disrobed. He likes the sight of her in various outfits, too, but right now, her bared skin is more lovely than any finery. He wants to touch it. The heat from her skin feels delicious, igniting in pleasant, alluring ways. He gives into the impulse. Manifesting more limbs to wrap around her, to touch her with, even as he admires her visually. It is a good combination. He grows several more eyes, on tendrils that let him observe from various angles as he explores her skin.

Skin which flushes increasingly under his attention. Selene’s scent spikes. She grips one of his tendrils and brushes her hand across it, until Dirthamen wraps it around her wrists, in turn, and pulls her hands away.

She wants his _best._

And what Dirthamen knows best is yearning.

His magic comes easily. Following the tendrils around Selene. His own scent becomes increasingly heavy in the air, even has his form remains ever-shifting. Selene’s breaths quicken, as his touch lingers steadily over her. He wraps around her thighs, and weaves across her arms. Caresses her breasts and the sensitive places on her hips. One tendril grows a mouth, and he uses it to kiss her. Her eyes widen at the first brush of his lips against the corner of her jaw. The soft skin behind her ears feels pleasant against his tongue. But after a moment he puts his lips away, and settles for brushing yet more touches across her. Playing with her hair and fondling her chest, and rebalancing her weight in his grasp. Until he finally feels confident in lifting her up.

Her breath catches as that. Some of her muscles clench and her eyes widen, but the lust in the air surges, too.

She likes to be picked up.

Dirthamen hums, and his tendrils vibrate. And he thinks Selene likes that, too, as her flush darkens and her hands twitch, and he moves her this way and that. Finally venturing a tendril to the inviting heat between her legs, as he turns her through the air. Adding some weightlessness makes the experience even more interesting. Selene’s hair spreads out, and her breasts hang differently, and her movements slow a little. She stares back down at him. Dirthamen has no idea what he looks like; his tendrils still glow where they touch her, but he can feel heat and light and the flare of his own magic at the core of him, too. The room is very brightly lit.

Selene’s eyelashes flutter, her lips part.

“Whoa,” she says, softly.

Dirthamen caresses her again, and her eyes shut, as her hips twist. He keeps his touch light, however. Only just firm enough to provide the necessary stimulation - nowhere near as firm as she generally likes it, though. She stares at him a few times, and gasps as he tightens his hold on her hips, and vibrates some more. The heat makes him want to purr. So he does. For a long while he simply caresses Selene, and hums, and purrs, and finds himself unable to articulate anything. Selene’s breaths turn ragged, and her movements more fervent. Requests fall from her lips. Tempting and wrought with longing.

He lets the moment linger as long as he might. He thinks he could do this for days, but Selene would probably not actually enjoy that. Her thighs tighten around one of his tendrils, attempting to gain more friction, and a curse escapes her as he simply presses it flat and then pulls it away. He brushes her cheek with it, and notes it to be, perhaps, _too_ flushed. He brings her back down to the ground, to restore some ordinary blood flow.

Selene sighs, and attempts to move her hands. Dirthamen lets her, but also maintains his own grip on them. Until she seems to have regained some comfort. Then he restrains her again.

“You are a _damn_ _dirty tease_ some days, you know that?” she tells him.

“I am just enjoying the view. We are not in a rush,” he manages to remind her. Though it is also true, he supposes. He is an incurable tease. His tendrils shine pink and warm, as he finally starts to work one into the damp of her entrance. The penetration still does not quite provide the _friction_ Selene is after, though. Her hips rock, and Dirthamen rocks with them - feeling frustration mingle with the arousal in the air. He keeps it up until there is more frustration than seems wise.

Then he lets a mouth form on the tendril pressing inside of her. Soft, pink ‘lips’, and a textured ‘tongue’ that wrings a gasp from Selene as he runs it over her.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she says.

“You taste very nice,” he says, and then hums. The hum is thoughtless, by now; he had not considered how it might reverberate through his lips and tongue, but the end result produces more cursing and twisting, and Selene rocking against him in urgency. Dirthamen restrains her more tightly, but also begins to move his tongue more firmly. Bit by bit, he widens it and lengthens it as well. Pressing deeper with every inward stroke; lingering on the nub of her clitoris with every outward one. He feels her constrict around him before long. Her pleasure sparks like a star, suffusing the air around her, heightening her scent and scorching through him in turn. He feels a moment’s regret - he had hoped to take longer - before he renews his efforts. Doing his best to capture the sensation, and draw it out for as long as he might.

Selene’s ragged breaths turn to gasps, and then to cries, as he continues to lick her, and lets his magic draw out the pleasure of her orgasm. Until she is trembling and shaking, and the pleasure has gained an edge of desperation; veering too close to discomfort. To over-stimulation. He withdraws his magic, then, lets his will fall away into reverence and gentleness. Selene’s chest heaves as the last cry escapes her lips. She goes boneless in his grasp. Her thighs glisten with the wetness dripping down from her. Dirthamen pulls her closer, still simmering himself, but concerned with her state. He forms arms to hold her, and a face of some sort to rest up against her own. Offering more soothing touches as she catches her breath.

Her scent turns, steadily, from the intoxication of arousal to something gentler in nature. Affectionate. The kind of bonding cooldown which sometimes overcomes alphas, though it is considered more innate to omegas. _Neediness,_ some call it. But Dirthamen feels it only as a sort of beautiful intimacy, easily answered, and very compelling. He brushes long touches down Selene’s sides, and nuzzles against her as she clutches him in turn.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

It takes her a minute more to find some words, though she does pat at him in a way that she typically means as reassurance.

“Muh huh,” she eventually replies. “What time is it?”

Dirthamen blinks, and then veers an eye towards the windows.

Hmm.

That sky is… very dark.

“Late,” he concedes.

They will probably have to eat and hydrate, in that case. He loosens his grip on Selene some. She blinks muzzily, still trembling a little as she runs a hand down her face. Dirthamen supposes his own relief will have to be postponed. The simmering in his own skin sure to linger for hours, yet. Possibly days.

“I enjoyed this very much,” he admits.

Selene huffs.

“I _will_ get you back,” she assures him.

What a marvelous outcome.


	19. Retribution

Dirthamen’s rut is beginning in earnest.

He knows the signs, and he has been preparing for them. So it is not a distressing experience, and has not been for some time now. The last rut he should have gone into was skipped, for reasons of convenience, but this time he has been more relaxed about delaying the cycle. It is strange to find it even _enjoyable,_ these days - but the experience, when indulged with a bonded partner, is indeed much different than his previous encounters had led him to assume.

He lets Selene know, though by the time he is being earnestly inconvenienced by it, she can already tell. She meets him in his chambers, and follows Dirthamen to his bed. Pressing kisses and touches, letting his hands rove across her skin, letting his fingertips linger over the bonding mark at the back of her neck. She mouths at the one she gave him in turn, bitten onto his collarbone, and it is remarkable how much heat the press of her lips there sends through him.

Dirthamen is focused on the kisses and touches, such that he does not even realize that Selene has moved his hands in a deliberate direction. Not until he feels something heavy wrap around each wrist, and seal shut with a solid _thunk._

He blinks.

Selene gives him a sly look, and then climbs off of him. Dirthamen look at his wrists, still somewhat addled by the impact on his senses, and attempts to move his arms.

They will not budge.

…Ah.

“Revenge?” he guesses.

Selene inclines her head.

“I told you I would get you back,” she replies, as she moves to the opposite corner of the bed. Still close enough that he can feel the warmth from her skin, and catch the allure of her scent. But too far for him to touch. Reflexively, he attempts to shift forms to follow her - but finds that he cannot. The attempt only makes his skin tingle for a moment, and leaves his shape unchanged.

That is actually very interesting. He has yet to encounter a system that impedes his shifting but does not cause any discernible discomfort. The thought actually pulls him out of the fog of his rut, somewhat.

“How did you manage this?” he wonders.

Selene settles back. He becomes distracted again by the slight rise in her scent, and the way she is angling her body. A few curles of pale hair slip from her shoulders, and one of her hands moves to cup her own breast.

“It was complicated,” she admits. “I had to tie the whole framework of the containment wards to the palace.” She toys with herself, trailing one hand back to rub against the back of her neck - the mark - and using the other to tease her nipples, and then caress her figure in long, demonstrative strokes. The movements look _very_ inviting, but Dirthamen’s restraints hold him fast. And already, his usual enjoyment of denial is edged with the desperation of his rut.

Selene’s voice becomes low, as she continues to explain.

“The framework is all your magic, of course. That was the key to making it… _comfortable._ Nothing is severing you from the Dreaming. I just tricked your own wards into restraining your shape.” She shifts her long legs around, and moves the hand from her neck down and down, before settling it between her thighs. The angle means that Dirthamen can see the movement of her wrist, but not the whole picture of how she is touching herself, as she begins to do so.

His nostrils flare at the sharp spike in her scent. The heady rush of arousal that thickens the air. She is not… oh. She has neglected some of her treatments, today. There is far more ‘omega’ to her scent than is customary, and while Dirthamen would be hard pressed to claim he likes it _better,_ it certainly inspires a heightened desire to initiate contact in him. His mouth waters and his blood finishes rushing southwards, his arousal quite visible. Selene looks at it, but makes no move towards him as she continues to touch herself.

What were they discussing…?

The wards. The trick. That is actually very, _very_ clever, and Dirthamen does want to know how she managed it. He shifts himself around, a bit. Venturing a leg towards her, but she moves further away before he can make any sort of contact.

“How did you… manage?” he asks.

Selene seems to require a moment of her own, to recollect what they were discussing.

“I’ll tell you later,” she offers, and then shifts her hips and lets out her first, breathy little moan.

Dirthamen’s instincts are beginning to rise up. Demanding that he move, demanding that he _touch her._ His bonded is _right there,_ aroused and omega-scented, making deliberately submissive gestures as she pleasures herself. His gaze fixates on the line of her neck, and the movements of her wrist. The way her breaths speed up, and the desire in the air shifts and flares. Like fire, but not. He begins to strain against his bonds in actual earnest.

“Selene…”

“Mm?”

He licks his lips, and shifts again. The shackles at his wrists have nearly no give.

“I want to touch you.”

Selene contemplates this admission, and draws out her own touches as she does. She moves again, then, and provides him with an even better view of what her hand is doing - but does not come closer, and makes no move to free him.

“How badly do you want to touch me?” she asks him.

A pained sound, near-animalistic, escapes him as he feels another rush of _need._

“Very badly,” he admits. “Vhenan, please, vhenan…”

Her scent is undeniable, nearly overwhelming now, as her fingers speed up. She keeps eye contact with him, touching herself more roughly. Fervently. Dirthamen watches her fingers delve inside of her and _strains,_ leaning in towards her, fighting for inches as his instincts get the absolute better of him. He just needs to touch her. Just to touch her, anywhere, to feel the heat of her and her skin against his own. The bond mark at his collar _aches_ with the sounds she makes as she tips her head back, and presents her neck to him again.

 _“Please,”_ he begs.

“I need more,” Selene sighs. His hopes soar. Yes, vhenan, yes, untie him, unbind him and let him…

He lets out a frustrated growl as she reaches for the bedside table, instead, and pulls out one of their toys. The soft, dark-painted phallus, that lights up where her fingers grip it. Just as his tendrils are wont to do. Dirthamen finds himself unable to stop the sounds that escape him as she eases the toy into herself, and leaves him where he is. His eyes flit swiftly from the flush in her face, to where she is being penetrated by an object that looks so much like him but is not, so he cannot _feel it,_ he cannot _feel her_ and it is steadily driving him off an internal cliff.

And then she comes.

The scent of her is overpowering. The sound of her moan cracks through him, and Dirthamen, though he has rarely been given to the ‘typical alpha’ behaviours, feels something in him snap in the fervent rush of _need._ The core of longing in him twists with a purpose-like determination, and a keen rush of awareness sweeps across him. Intent, and animalistic, but nowhere near senseless. He thinks very quickly - quicker than he ever might expect of himself. Selene tied his bindings in with his own wards, to trick his magic into containing him. He is containing _himself._ He flares his magic, and the tingling sense of containment warps into a sudden rush of power.

The lights flicker. In the lower levels of the palace, a half dozen wards fail.

A multitude of wings erupt from Dirthamen’s back, as the bindings break. His wrists burn, but all he can feel is the same fervent _need_ for his bonded, that he sates in a rush. Selene gasps as he falls upon her, shock mingling with her arousal, tensing for a moment until Dirthamen presses a hand to the back of her neck and his mouth to her mouth, pulling her flush to him. Then their scents mingle and her own instincts seem to get the better of her, as she clutches his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist. The toy is still inside of her, though, blocking him as he thrusts haphazardly against her. Her nails scrabble at his shoulders as the rock of his hips presses it deeper inside of her, and a startled gasp escapes her.

“ _Dirthamen_ , Dirth-”

He ruts up against her skin, anyway, his cock leaking and his wings shaking, his own grip tight as he breathes in the scent of her, and pins her beneath him. His erection slides to the seam of her thigh, and rubs in futility against her already-filled entrance, until he grips her hips and lifts her legs, and ruts between her cheeks instead. Not penetrating, but just thrusting, seeking contact until he scents the undeniable rush of _heat_ on her.

Not just arousal, and not a rut, but a full omega heat that adds to the rush of slick moisture between her legs.

“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, shit, _shit…”_

Dirthamen is not currently capable of articulation. Some dim corner of his mind is concerned, but the rest is consumed with the signals and signs of the moment. Selene is not in pain. She is _aroused,_ and he can feel that arousal thrumming through him. Adding to his own. He gets a hand down towards her, and devours her with kisses that steal the breaths and words from her. Her hips rock against him, and she reaches for herself. Trying to grasp the toy inside of her, but his own movements impede her, and after a moment she abandons the effort in favour of stroking his erection whenever she can reach it.

Dirthamen clutches her close with one arm. Relishing the feel of her breasts against his chest, and her legs still around him, as he works a hand beneath her backside. Her breaths quicken even more as he spreads some of the moisture between her legs to her available entrance. But he wants to touch her _more,_ wants to clutch and stroke and squeeze, and put his hand back against her mark. Wants to roll her over and press his mouth to it, and so after a moment he manifests several tendrils, and flares his wings back, and does jus that.

 _“Vhenan,”_ he growls into her ear, as she grips the bedsheets beneath her. “Mine, my vhenan…”

The sweat on her skin tastes sweet with the sudden onset of her heat. His tendrils are better than fingers anyway for working her open, and spreading the natural fluids of their arousal inside of her. They narrow and swell at a whim, and twist and curl, pressing inside of her until he finds the right rhythm and spaces to draw pleased gasps from her throat. His own arousal presses insistently against her backside.

One of the pillows catches fire.

Dirthamen douses it without a thought. And the next one, too. His awareness has slipped into the odd space of an active rut, still reasoning, but, wholly lacking his ordinary priorities - there is only Selene, and sex. Mate and mating. He laves his tongue against her bonding mark and lifts her hips, as moisture slides from her legs and drips onto the sheets beneath them. Feathers drift down. One of Dirthamen’s tendrils begins to move the toy still inside of Selene, as he lines himself up with her rear entrance, and begins to press in there, too.

_Careful._

The caution slows him, a little. Rising up from somewhere left of his instincts, and keeping his inward stroke gentle and steady. His hands brush up and down Selene’s back and sides. Moving to cup her breasts, as she squirms for a moment - until she begins to rock into him. Dirthamen thrusts more steadily then. The tendril holding the toy inside of her flattens, and begins to wrap itself around _that,_ too. Pressing inside of her from both angles. He works a third up the length of her body, and slides it between her lips, too. Feeling a fresh surge of arousal, as he presses into her from all angles.

The feel of her surrounding him is molten. The scent is intoxicating. Dirthamen sinks his fingers into her hair and shifts, moving to take her more fully, to have as much of her as he can as she gasps and writhes and tries to take him deeper in turn. She shudders, coming again. He would not have thought the scent in the air could get any thicker, could push him any further, but it _does._ It drives his movements to the erratic, until his cock slips back out of her again, and slides between the wet heat of her cheeks, and he spends his seed on her skin.

The culmination is bright and nearly painful in his state. Pleasurable, but also visceral. He bites down on Selene’s mark again, and holds his breath as his vision whites out for several seconds, and his limbs tremble. A rush of dark feathers rains down around them. His chest heaves with ragged breaths.

When he can manage a coherent thought, Selene has moved in his arms, and he is lying on the feather-covered bed. His wings are gone, though not damaged; he has done _that_ before, at least. And he can still smell the heat, though Selene’s own gaze is clearer. She pulls the toy out of herself with a wince, though.

“Did I hurt you?” he wonders, suddenly appalled with himself. That was not… that was not what she intended him to do, he thinks. The lights in the room are still flickering erratically. His shoulders ache, and her is fairly certain her grip bruised him a little. And he can see a few scratch and bite marks on her own skin, too.

But she snorts at him, and then flops down onto him, and presses a kiss to his lips.

“No,” she assures him. He does not feel as if she is hiding anything, either. He slides a hand down her back, and she sighs against his temple. And even now, wriggles her hips somewhat, too. “…Just spoiled my plans. Next time you’re not going to be able to break out, though.”

Dirthamen finds himself inclined a low, amused growl at the prospect. It rumbles out of him, and echoes, too. His growls like to echo when he is very worked up. Selene has assured him that she does not find it disconcerting - and judges by the way she lets out her own reply, and kisses him, that has not changed.

“Best of luck with that,” he says.

He permits himself to be just the tiniest bit smug.

Though, going off of the look she gives him in return, he may come to regret it.


	20. Size Kink

Dirthamen is feeling very focused today.

He has lost his concentration only two times, and both times for less than an hour, which is very good when compared with his usual standards. He has gotten through the day’s duties without much incident, has completed several tasks which were previously eluding his ability to execute, and has suffered very few deviations in his physical shape.

Which, since this morning, has been ten feet tall, with four arms, black scales covering the entirety of his form, and hair that wants to curl rather than lie flat.

Fortunately, he has clothing that is designed to accommodate a stubborn shift, and no particular events he is scheduled to attend. So he had donned a sleeveless back robe - that normally trails across the floor, but currently ends at his ankles - and at one of his advisors’ suggestions, tied his hair back, and adorned his wrists with decorative cuffs which could fit around the atypical meat of his extra forearms.

It is such a day that he does not see Selene until evening, when they are set to meet for a private meal. They had not been able to spend the night together, Selene’s current projects stealing her attention, while Dirthamen’s sudden need for rest had diverted his own. But he is not expecting any particularly strange reaction from her. She is accustomed to inconsistency of shape from him.

And, in a way, her reaction is not strange. In fact it seems relatively in-keeping with a trend, as she looks towards the doorway to greet him, and her eyes go wide. And her scent spikes. Her arousal mingles with her alpha scents in a heady cocktail that gives him pause. He lingers by the door for a moment, as Selene looks him blatantly up and down.

“That… is a good look on you,” she ventures, after a moment.

Dirthamen shifts in place.

“Thank you. My parts are proportionate to this height, if not… excessive. I fear I have not been able to alter it today,” he admits. “It would probably be unwise to act upon your appreciation.”

Selene’s eyebrows go up. She is dressed in her archival gear, still. The scent of books lingers beneath the scent of her arousal, and the cut of her jacket looks particularly fetching… though Dirthamen does not think it has changed much since the last time he saw it. He has always admired the way the waist tapered in, however, and emphasized the flare of her hips.

Dinner platters are waiting on the table.

Selene does not look at them as she licks her lips, and slinks towards him.

“That sounds like a challenge to me,” she says, in a playful tone.

He swallows, and takes shallow breaths as his own impulses stir. Her eyes are bright and intent, very focused as she closes the distance between them, and looks up at him. Her hands trail up his stomach. Her touch is warm through the fabric of his dress, as she spreads her palms across his chest, and gives his arms a speculative look.

“How’s your coordination?” she wonders.

Dirthamen settles his lower set of arms around her waist, and frames her face with his upper set of hands.

“Quite good, actually,” he admits.

She smiles at him. Leaning into his touch, the air around her heated but also affectionate, and clearly quite taken with this style of attention. Dirthamen thinks he enjoys it himself, as he trails his fingers over her ears, and into the soft curls of her hair. And moves his hands to stroke her hips at the same time, letting his touch linger over the little divots that he knows to be sensitive.

Penetration is, of course, not required for a sexual interlude. Particularly given that neither of them are near to any troublesome phases in their cycles. On that front, size is irrelevant. Selene nips at one of his thumbs, and slides her own hands down to his belt. She gives it a playful tug, before she seems to change her mind and decide that shrugging out of her coat is more imperative.

“I want to see,” she declares.

Dirthamen blinks.

“See what?” he wonders.

“See what you look like naked, in this shape,” she informs him, as she flings her coat aside. “See what the rest of you looks like right now.”

Dirthamen reconsiders. _Are_ they both well away from the troublesome phases of their cycles? Selene is acting rather uninhibited for it. But then again, they are in his private rooms. The door is closed, and, apparently, she thinks he is very appealing when he is ten feet tall and burly.

Pulling his hands away from Selene’s face, he reaches for his own neck, and starts undoing the fastenings at the back. The dress loosens. Selene grins as she undoes his belt and tugs his top down, and then traces her fingers over the whorling patterns that have formed on the skin of his chest, before moving back far enough to pull the skirt from his hips. Fabric pools at his ankles. Selene stares down at the seventh limb his body is currently sporting.

Even soft, it is abnormally large.

And not its customary shape, either.

Also, there are whorls on it.

Selene stares at it for a moment. Dirthamen thinks he should, perhaps, assure her that she is under no obligation to interact with any parts that might unsettle her. As yet that has not been an issue, but this may be the limit. Before he can, however, Selene reaches out and takes him in hand, and strokes him upward. Her scent spikes again as she growls in a possessive fashion, and Dirthamen finds that however it might look, that part of himself still reacts to her touch as fervently as ever.

She narrows her eyes, speculatively.

And then she drops down, gripping his member with one hand and his hip with the other, and licks down the length of him. Dirthamen’s own scent rises and he freezes in surprised, gripped by the unexpected sensation of heat and warmth, near-tickling with the way Selene’s tongue feels comparatively smaller against him. He makes a sound of surprise when she does it again, and then sets about trying to fit him into her mouth. Flaccid, she can almost manage it. But as he hardens and wavers in place, hands seeking purchased and finding it at the wall behind him, he engorges to a size that defies her. Her lips still suck at the head of his cock, but she only gets halfway down his length before stopping.

Dirthamen’s heavy breaths echo in his mask, as she toys with his testicles and drags her tongue across his length again.

“Selene!” he finally manages to protest.

She pauses, and looks up at him.

“Hm?” she asks. Tightening her grip on him, just enough to make his breath catch again.

“It is… I…” he struggles to articulate his dilemma. He does not object to anything she is doing, in particular. But it is very sudden and somewhat unexpected, and the sensations are verging on too much, too soon. Particularly for his current sexual equilibrium. He does not seem to need to find the words, though, as her expression shifts, and she comes back up. He groans in something between relief and disappointment as she lets him go, and then reaches up and gestures him downwards. Until she can easily - and gently - pull his mask from his face.

The air of the room feels cool against his skin. The scents are much harder to evade without his mask, too. His nose twitches as he breathes in the pheromones of their mingled arousal. He rests his forehead against hers, and pauses a moment to try and regain his internal balance.

She tilts her head up, and kisses him.

“Sorry,” she says. “I can slow down. Or we can just have dinner.”

Dirthamen considers these two proposals.

Nourishment is important. But, the dinner platters are charmed, and can wait several hours, at least. And he is not particularly famished. His body has other interests now. So, it seems, does Selene’s.

“The bedroom?” he suggests.

Selene grins, eyes bright with a triumph that suffuses her aura somewhat, too. She takes his lower hands and links their fingers together, and tugs him into their bedchamber. Dirthamen follows complacently, at first. But as they cross the threshold, he finds himself growing more sure-footed again. And so he reaches with his top hands, and begins undoing the fastenings of Selene’s own remaining clothes. He leans over her and pulls off her belt, and unties her tunic, until the material is slipping down her shoulders and her breasts are falling from the collar. She lets go of him long enough to shrug her clothing aside. Her leggings give her some trouble, though; Dirthamen picks her up and deposits her on the end of the bed, and helps pull them away.

He goes slowly, at first. Savouring each inch of skin exposed, until Selene becomes impatient, and wriggles her way out of them. It is not the most graceful of gestures, but Dirthamen can appreciate its efficiency. And the view of her backside it affords him.

Selene rolls over entirely, but rather than enticing him, she seems set upon reaching the drawers beneath their bed. Dirthamen waits. His arousal is a persistent heat, straining between his legs, as Selene slides open the left side drawers, and whispers at them until she pulls a box and a bottle free.

Lubrication, and… ah.

Dirthamen swallows as she opens the box, and presents him with two of their newest recreational bedroom items.

“What do you think?” she asks him. She points to one of the plan silver cockrings. Incidentally, he notes that it is a near match for the wrist cuffs he is still wearing. “Reduce sensation, but rely on your own restraint to keep from coming. Or,” she points to the second ring, “enhance sensation, but with no risk of finishing until I let you?”

He swallows, and clears his throat. Glancing between the two items. She would, he thinks, respect ‘neither’ as an answer too. But…

“I have not been able to chance my shape much today. If I lose focus, I might not be able to shift anything to… help…” he admits. Though his gaze lingers on the second ring.

Selene shrugs.

“Then you would have to trust me to handle things,” she replies.

Framed as a matter of trust, that simplifies matters. Selene may have her boldness, but she is as concerned with his comfort as he is with hers. And she knows he would not be well with breaking certain limits, or causing certain harm.

“The second one,” he decides.

Selene’s expression seems _very_ pleased, as she plucks it up.

“Will it fit?” he wonders.

“It had better. I commissioned for that feature,” she replies. He notices the ring change size as she speaks, though, and brings it close to his waiting length. He swallows again, and braces his hands against the top of the bed frame, while she hums in approval and slides the ring onto him. It tingles. He can feel Selene’s breath, even though her mouth is not actually too close to him. And the heat from her fingertips, too, as they delicately grip the enchanted jewelry, and guide it down the length of his shaft.

When it settles at the base, it glows. And the bed frame creaks as Dirthamen feels a bolt of pleasure shoot right through him, and settle intimately beneath his skin. Lingering and buzzing and oh, this may have been a rash misjudgment on his part. He can smell himself more thickly in the air than Selene, now, and the look on Selene’s face is one he has come to associate with sweet torment.

She leans forward.

She has not even touched him before the bed frame creaks again. It is very sturdy, but Dirthamen thinks he may need to move somewhere else all the same, as the mere exhalation of her breath against him feels like the whole heat of her mouth had before.

“I should… move…” he says.

“Hm. I think I like you where you are,” Selene replies, playfully.

“I cold break the bed,” he mentions, in the interest of safety.

“Noted,” she replies, before closing the distance, and dragging her tongue across his length again.

  
Dirthamen curses, audibly, and strains. Again the bed creaks, but still holds tight as the pleasure scorches him like Selene’s licking fire. Spreading up through him and stealing his breath. He gasps when she strokes him with her hand; and his fingers put grooves in the bed frame when she takes the tip of his cock into her mouth again. His legs _tremble,_ the sensations passing through him building up, and up, but plainly having nowhere to go.

“Oh,” he breathes, when Selene hums against him. “Oh, _oh!”_

She takes him deeper. Dirthamen strains to hold himself still, to keep from thrusting. It is actually easier than usual, in an odd sense; the feelings currently flooding through him are near-overwhelming as it is. Seeking more seems unwise.

So instead he holds still, as Selene squeezes his hip and tries to swallow him down further, before she finally gives up pulls off again. Drawing in a few deep breaths, and stroking him with her hand instead. When she tightens her grip Dirthamen whimpers, caught by the fresh spark of heat, when it already feels as if he is flooded with sensations. The brush of her thumb. The warm wet of her saliva. The curl of an index finger, as she teasingly traces the pattern of a whorl.

She gives his length a kiss, and then lets him go.

He throbs. Strains. Aching to have her touch back again. Aching for _release,_ already, so soon. Part of him relishes the prospect of it all, the way time feels like it has stopped in the rise of his pleasure. In the command of such small gestures, such big and yet simple touches. But that part wars with his body, which is demanding relief.

Selene leans back. The scent of her in the air grows, as she spreads out on the bed in front of him, and takes up the bottle of lubricant.

“Alright,” she says, in a low, commanding tone of voice that - not for the first time - makes him wonder about the true divisions of alpha and omega. If Dirthamen were not already convinced by now that most were false, this would make for yet more compelling evidence. She extends the bottle towards him.

“Your turn,” she declares.

He needs a moment to remember how to let go of the bed frame.

Eventually, though, he manages it. Putting his arms down, and then pulling himself onto the bed over her. He takes the bottle, but almost ignores it at first. Settling between her legs instead, and seeking the heat of her with his mouth. The stutter of Selene’s breath is gratifying as he puts his own tongue to use. His limbs are still trembling somewhat. It seems only fair to return the favour, as his straining arousal wavers in the open air beneath him, and he devours her with fervent hunger for the scent and feel of her desire.

His fingers are bigger now too, after all.

By the time he ventures the first digit inside of her, she is gripping the sheets of the bed, and he is not certain if she has actually come or not. Sometimes it can be subtle, and the tide of her pleasure and arousal are simply _strong._

He puts some of the lubricating oil on his fingers first, though. Not so far gone as to forget, adding the unscented slickness to her natural heat, as he works his index finger into the softness of her entrance. The slide of his touch pulls a gasp from her. A press of his tongue at the right angle, and a curl of his finger, and whether or not she had come before she does so _then_ for certain. Dirthamen keeps up his ministrations throughout it, even as his own arousal begs for attention. Her every sound and tremor, the squeeze of her thighs around his head, only worsens his torment.

“More,” Selene gasps, though.

So that is what he gives her.

Fitting a second finger inside her is more challenging that usual. He tries to focus, to slim his digits down and make it easier, but his form will not cooperate. So he goes slow, instead, sparing as much focus as he can from the near-painful ache of his flesh and the heated fog in his head, until Selene’s hips jerk and she takes his fingers in deeper anyway. She seems more pliant than usual. Her eyes close and her hips rock, and Dirthamen finds her can stretch her more fully than he could even if his hands were a more customary size. She is shifting her own shape, he thinks. Enough for him to fit a third finger, as she spreads her legs wider and tangles her fingers in his hair.

“Ready,” she pants, raggedly. “I am ready, come on, Dirthamen, I can take it. I want to feel you inside of me. Dirthamen, _Dirthamen…”_

He presses his fingers against her in a way that makes her hips rock and he leg muscles tense with pleasure, before moving his mouth back to her and sucking at her clitoris until she comes again. Her inner muscles constrict around his fingers, and her hands tug at his hair.

 _“Dirthamen,”_ she insists, still.

He works kisses up to her abdomen, and considers it. She tries to wrap her legs around him as he moves up. Encouraging her obvious aim, and Dirthamen himself aches to feel her heat around him. But not like this, he thinks.

No. He has a better idea.

As Selene attempts to pull him into place, then, he moves up properly. Gets his arms around, her, and then rolls them both over. To the opposite side of the bed, to a reverse of their positions. Selene’s breaths stutter as he puts his four arms to good use in holding her up. Tendrils would be more useful, but hands can do for securing her in place, and once she realizes his aims she helps position herself over his straining cock.

When she tries to move down, though, he halts her.

Closing one hand over the mark at the back of her neck, with two others keep her in place, he moves his fourth between her legs. Sinking his fingers into her wet heat again, and working her open once more. Just to be sure. He moves his digits in slow circles, and swallows at the feel of the heat poised just above his arousal. His cock twitches and his heart speeds, and Selene’s thighs tremble. She grips two of his arms and rocks into his touch, rocks downwards, parting her lips and letting out a breathy moan.

Taxing Dirthamen’s restraint until he finally gives in, and lines himself up with her. And starts slowly lowering her onto his over-sized cock.

 _Very_ slowly.

He is intensely glad that he is not, in fact, in heat, because the sensation of her walls closing around him is almost enough to drive every thought from his mind as it is. Heat and pleasure and _want_ flood through him, the desire to move his hips nearly overwhelming. But he cannot, cannot… he cannot remember _why_ he cannot, but he clings to the notion as she stretches around him, and turns her own gaze down to where their bodies are meeting.

 _Too big,_ he thinks.

But despite the perilously tight fit, he does not actually meet any resistance. Selene keeps pressing down against his efforts to control her descent, and Dirthamen is trembling himself with the need to feel _more._ So he keeps going. Sliding her down further and further, until the whorls on his skin start to gleam. Then Selene gasps, and tights her grip on him. Her inner muscles convulse around him.

“ _Ah!”_ she exclaims.

Dirthamen starts to pull her off, but she halts him and shakes her head.

“No, no, it is good, it feels _so good,”_ she insists, even as he realizes that it is pleasure that his spilling out from her. That is addling her expression and lightly slurring her speech. Not pain. “How are you doing that?”

“Doing what?” he pants.

Reaching over, Selene traces a finger over one of the glowing whorls on his arm. It does not feel exceptional to _him,_ but when she does it she shivers, and rocks her hips more firmly against him.

“More,” she commands.

Dirthamen gives it just a little longer, before obliging. He resumes her guided descent. Biting his lip and closing his eyes to focus, only to open them again, so that he might better see her above him. Selene tips her head back, and starts circling her hips. Just a little. Just enough to ease things further, as Dirthamen fights the growing, agonizing impulse to thrust upwards. To give in and feel her all around him at once.

He fights it until it almost comes as a shock when they cover the last inch, and she _has_ taken him all the way.

Selene’s own eyes are wide. Her breaths are deep. Dirthamen has no idea how he himself must look, for he is too lost to the sensations to mind his expression much. His hands are shaky where they still hold her. His grip going lax enough that when Selene lifts her hips, he does not react in time to stall her; and can only let out a cry of his own as she slides up, and then down again. Only a short distance, but enough to break some more of his control, as the pleasure courses up through him and the ring on his cock gleams in refusal.

 _“Yes,”_ Selene moans. Circling her hips before repeating the motion, and drawing another cry from his lips. “I can take you,” she breathes. Her eyes seem to gleam as she looks down at him. Scent so strong he can barely register anything beyond it and the rush of feeling throughout his body. Her nails dig into his arms, just a little. “I can take you, all of you, you are _mine.”_

Dirthamen’s head tilts back. Jaw exposed in a submissive gesture that pulls a growl from Selene, and another slide of her hips. He loses himself, then. Gone amid the sensations, the building sense of _need,_ his hunger for release and the feel of his bonded around his cock and beneath his hands. His hips stutter upwards and pull a cry from Selene. Startled but still awash in pleasure. He helps keep he upright with two hands but lets the other two wander, tracing her mark even as his own throbs against his collarbone, before sliding down her neck. Brushing her lips with one thumb and fondling her breasts with another hand. Until he loses all focus again, as she begins taking him at a more rapid pace.

They still cannot go _very_ fast.

He thinks Selene might be able to handle it, but he does not know if _he_ could. He feels utterly on the cusp. So close, so _close,_ and yet her movements continue, on and on until he loses track of all semblance of time. Her legs tremble and his arms waver, she comes around him twice more until the hands he his bracing her with slip against the sweat on her legs. And she lurches forward. Halting herself with her hands against his chest, inadvertently tilting the angle of her descent in a way that wrings a cry from her lips. Still mostly pleasure, but with a distinct note of pain, too.

Dirthamen does not think. He rolls them both to their sides and pulls out of her, even as a protest escapes her lips.

“Not… _finished…”_ she pants.

His cock presses against her hip, some part of him howling to get back inside of her. But the rest of him knows that it will not grant him release, no matter how many thrusts he makes. And while the note of pain has faded, he feels like it has knocked his heart through his back and into the bed beneath them.

Metaphorically, of course.

He works his fingers against her instead. Whispering the most gentle healing spell he knows, as he finishes her once more with his touch.

She looks like she might be on the verge of protesting further. But then they lock gazes. Her skin is as flushed as he has ever seen it. Her breaths are ragged, chest still heaving, and hair all in disarray. He sees her gaze soften, the haze of lust lifting and affection sinking into its place.

“Apologies,” he murmurs, as he brushes a hand down her side. The _need_ in the air is mostly his own, now. Pent up and fit to bursting, fit to have him begging, but he can linger in that.

Selene brushes a few strands of hair from his face, and then returns his apology, for some reason. She settles a hand over his collarbone, before moving her mouth there. Tracing the mark she made on him with her teeth. Then kissing the skin in the center. One of her hands slides down his side in turn. Then she takes him in her hand, and begins slowly stroking him. Gently enough that it is almost a tease. Firmly enough that it makes his breaths stutter once more.

He buries his nose against her hair, until the feel of her touch overwhelms him.

“Please,” he begs. “Selene, please, please let me… I need to…”

“Shh,” she hums.

He wraps his arms around her, while she lazily strokes him. Falling into her own aftermath. He feels her start to grin against his skin, start to shift her hips again - but she makes no move to change their position, either. And her strokes pause, every now and again, to outright tease him as she traces the glowing patterns on his cock with her fingertips.

 _“Selene,”_ he pleads. “Let me come!”

She hums against him.

“Not today,” she decides.

With the corner of his mind still capable of coherent thought, Dirthamen hopes he will be able to manage this shape again tomorrow.


	21. Dirthamen finds Haleir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for memories of non-con (non-explicit)

He almost doesn’t notice the man with the orange hair.

They are, after all, only another member of his brothers business team. They do not visit often, but Falon'din has been pulling himself thin in his recent spats with Ghilan'nain, and has sent them in an attempt to steal more resources from Dirthamens own lands than he already claims.

The man speaks more than he should, with unearned confidence that is not uncommon from his brothers people. But this is not what is upsetting to Dirthamen, distracting him for much of the meeting.

In fact, he cannot seem to place _why_ , precisely, this mans presence upsets him so greatly.

It is only when Deceit plucks his name out of the dreaming that he realizes it.

 _Haleir_.

It is the same name as the man who forced Selene into a bond, during her first heat.

Fear warns that it could possibly be a coincidence, that there are likely several elves within the empire who share the name. That they should not act rashly, particularly where his brothers people are involved.

Despite Fears reasonable precautions, Dirthamen finds much of himself preoccupied with thoughts of how to proceed with the situation. When it becomes too much, and neither himself nor his aspects can focus on the important topics of the meeting any longer, they dismiss the rest of the team. 

Once it is just Haleir and himself left in the room, Dirthamen feels something settle deep within his stomach. Something cold, and heavy, that delights in the burst of unease the man across from himself fails to squander. It takes him a moment to place the sensation, and when he does he wonders if he should fight to dismiss it. Rage; not the loud and raucous and too hot style of his father, but the silent, simmering kind that he knows he could linger in if he let himself.

 _It could be another_ , Fear warns again.

Dirthamen supposes that could still be true, though the likelihood feels less and less as the other man squirms uncomfortably in his chair. He does not ask for permission before he pries at the mans memories, as his rank allows him the right to do so. Especially here, in his home.

In the home he shares with Selene.

After only a few centuries worth, he finds her. Finds _her_ face in _his_ memories, twisted and crying and clawing in a way the other man seemed undeterred by. Looking up at him, pleading and begging even in her haze for a mercy that did not find her that day.

Dirthamen’s stomach turns to ice, as do most of his features.

He does not even snap his fingers before the man across the table from him falls silent; lifeless and slumped into his chair, propped up only by the shadows that had stolen his life. Regret fills Dirthamen; not at his actions, but at his haste. The cold inside him thinks he should have made him suffer, made him feel pain at least ten fold what was inflicted on Selene.

But that would have upset her, had she discovered the murder. At least now, he can tell her the death of the man who scarred her was painless, and have it not be a lie.

Fear finds her first, less distracted by the rage and the fury trying to settle into Dirthamens body. She is in the workshop, safe and unaware.

They ask her to their rooms.

When he finds her, sitting and waiting on their bed, his first instinct is to reaffirm their bond. He has never thought himself a jealous type, but he thinks now that there is no life force to keep the mark she hates sustained upon her, he would like to take her over and over and over again until it has faded from her, body and mind.

Her face in Haleirs memories falters his steps.

 _No_ , he decides.

No, she has had enough of violence tainting her sexual experiences. He would not add to that. He loves her, cares for her, and she did not deserve the violence she once survived.

One hand reaches out, fingers long and slender and transparent, and strokes her exposed shoulder. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his cold, such a sharp contrast to the heat of her, the warmth of her skin as she shivers beneath his touch.

“Are you alright?” She asks, her own hand reaching out to remove his mask.

He takes a deep breath as he permits her to lift it from his face; the light burst of citrus from her bright in the air around them. His lips press to hers without a word, eager and desperate to keep her close, to hide her away with him, to pull her closer and closer still.

When they finally break their kiss, she presses her forehead to his, eyes blinking up at him.

“It’s alright,” She says, linking her fingers through his in a manner he has come to find very reassuring. “Whatever happened, I’m here. I’ll help you as best I can.”

He feels the crack in his ice.

He means to laugh, he thinks, at her words. The relief and the wonder and the awe she fills him with each time she is kind, and good, and everything he is not.

But it is only tears that fall from him.

It has been a long time, he thinks, since he cried. He is not sure if he recalls the exact date of the last occasion. His form shifts, unsure as his composure and control fall away; in grief, and joy, in the knowledge that she is here and she loves him and she is finally, _finally_ , safe from her own dangers.

She holds him as she falls back onto the bed at the weight of one of his shifts, still enveloping him in her arms as best she can manage it, and he feels his rage and his anger from her, from his position, from his family, melt away.

When his form finally settles, he is mostly elvhen. He has four eyes and long hair, and arms and legs covered in black feathers, but his shape, he is fairly certain, is that of an elf. His face is resting in the crook of her neck, teeth resting on the mark he had left with her consent. His own aches on his collarbone, but he does not dare move to address it as his arms wrap back around her. He rolls them over so that she is over him, and lets out a long breath of relief as a word finally rings through all aspects of himself.

_Safe._


	22. Chapter 22

Selene seems… contemplative, over the news of Haleir’s execution.

She does not respond to him with anger, though he thinks there is some anger in her, too. But there is relief as well, in the mix of emotions he is not adept at discerning. She seems most aggrieved by his having witnessed Haleir’s memories of her rape, if anything.

Unfortunately, Dirthamen cannot deny it. And it makes some things… tense, for a while. Disquieted. He is not certain why, until Selene is ready to discuss it. And then he gathers that an event which she wishes had not happened, is also not an event she would like to have witnesses to. That she is afraid on some level, perhaps, that this might change things between them. Dirthamen does his best to assuage her fears.

When the last remnant of the unwanted mark fades from her skin, though, he knows it. He is awake, drifting in the Dreaming but not sleeping, while Selene rests against his side. She wakes in the dark, quiet hours of the night, with a soft gasp on her lips. And then she lays in place for a long while, breathing deep. The air is thick with her scent, but not her pheromones. Dirthamen snaps back to the Waking as his nose fills with the scent of _mate_ and _tears,_ but absent of the usual notes of anxiety that would indicate distress. He still turns towards her, though. His shape eases into a smaller one - though still larger than hers, as he wraps arms and tentacles around her, and brushes her cheek with a free hand.

“What is wrong?” he asks her.

She cannot quite manage to reply, though. But she burrows more tightly against him, and presses her lips to his own mark, and sinks her fingers deep into his feathers. He tries to keep them soft, as she cries against him until she goes boneless with relief.

“Done,” she says. And he guesses, then.

Her voice is thick with sleep and tears. She breathes in a long, heavy sigh, before falling back asleep.

She sleeps through the next morning, and into the following evening. Dirthamen procures some food and water, and plans on waking her up, but she wakes of her own accord before he can implement that plan. Ravenously hungry and thirsty, but with a clearer scent and a certain relaxed slant to her shoulders that eases some of his worry. She does not say much, but she sits with him as she eats.

Dirthamen knows that Haleir’s death does not change what happened. But he will never pose a threat to her again, and that thought settles something inside of himself, too. He curls around her back and listens to her heartbeat, to the sounds of her breaths. Drinking in her scent and feeling the easy air around her.

When the platter is cleared, and her pitcher is empty, she lets out another sigh.

“I have to use the facilities,” she tells him.

He reluctantly lets her go, appeased by the pet to his limb, and gathers up the remnants of her meal. She is gone for a long while, but he hears the waters of his heated taps running, and senses no distress. Selene’s scent is heavy on their bed; he sinks into it, and wraps it around himself. Pulling the blanket over him to better soak it in, and appease the voice in him that still wishes to have her _close._ To reaffirm that she is not being harmed.

Haleir’s memory sticks in his mind like a thorn. His own helplessness to go back to that moment, to _act_ against it, chaffing against his heart and warring with his nature, too. Proactive behaviour has never been his strong suit. He does not know quite how to handle the shape of this longing - or this frustration.

When Selene emerges from the bathroom, her skin is pink, and her eyes are clear.

And her scent is…

Oh.

_Oh._

“Are you going into rut?” he wonders. She has not neglected her treatments, after all, and in those circumstances that tends to be more the way such things go. It would be early, but sometimes mark-based events can trigger _reactions._ Starting things early, or even just creating stray hormonal episodes.

Selene pads over to the bed, and burrows into the blankets with him.

“I think so,” she admits. “Do you mind…?”

Dirthamen tilts his head, and blinks with six eyes.

“Of course I do not,” he says. “I will have to reschedule some things, but Fear and Deceit can handle it.”

With a murmur of approval, Selene slips her hands up under the nightgown he is wearing, and teases her teeth across his mark. He moves his hand to her neck, to cover his own there, and shivers. His own scent rises at the gentle ministrations; even though they are still well within the bounds of affectionate behaviour only.

He wants…

…He wants not to press her.

She growls low in the back of her throat, though, and slides a leg between his thighs. Dirthamen has an inward shape to his genitals a the moment. He considers shifting, but Selene just murmurs in approval, and coaxes his legs further apart. She sinks her teeth into the bite. Hard enough to pull a soft gasp from his lips, as the mark throbs, and pleasure blooms from the point of contact. Potent enough to make him squirm.

“I want to fuck you,” she tells him.

Oh.

Well.

In _that_ case…

“I am amenable to that,” he replies.

A snorted chuckle escapes her. Fond and happy, as she breaks off from their activities for a moment to look up at him. Her eyes shine with reflected starlight. Affection ripples out from her, colouring the sharpness to her scent with something softer. Something that nevertheless makes him shiver, too.

“I love you,” she tells him.

He wraps all the arms he has around her, and glows with happiness.

“I love you, too.”


	23. Tease

Dirthamen has found his form ‘sticking’ in various places from time to time.

Sometimes small, sometimes large, sometimes amorphous, sometimes mostly elf-like.

Today he is a veritable mountain of feathers, too big to fit through the doorway of his chambers. His face is mostly that of a many-eyed bird. His mask moves down to his back, settling amid the feathers there. His limbs are largely without digits, but some of the phantom tendrils which curl around the mass of his being are dexterous enough to manipulate fine tools. So he has one of his attendants bring him some of the paperwork he is overdue on, and largely focuses on this task throughout the day, as he waits for his shape to become more malleable again.

It is not an attractive form. Selene does not seem terribly concerned with this, though, and when she comes to check on him, is mostly worried that he is ‘bored’ or that he is emotionally distressed by being ‘trapped’.

“I am not trapped,” he assures her, after she has inquired on this subject for the third time. “My form can still change. Just not at the moment.”

She accepts this answer with some consideration; folding her arms and giving him a contemplative look, before subsiding. Her own work calls to her, so Dirthamen goes back to his papers. Carefully lifting them up to read, and then signing his name. A task which takes slightly longer than is customary, given his lack of fingers. But it is still more productive than not. Sometimes he pauses, in order to slip into his examinations of the Dreaming, or muse upon his own thoughts. These are more interesting, but less practical, than the paperwork.

At midday a servant brings him lunch. At evening Selene comes and brings dinner, and sits to eat with him.

When night falls, however, he is much too big to fit into the bed. Which is a shame, as he is overdue on sleep.

Still, it is not a pressing issue. He determines that he will meditate, while Selene climbs under the covers and settles into the pillows and blankets. The sounds of her heartbeat are very comforting, and provide a steady rhythm for him to orient himself around, before he ventures into the Dreaming again.

An hour or so later, he feels a hand on his feathers.

It summons his consciousness back to the waking world. He blinks, and turns his head to see Selene standing beside him. Peering up at him. Naked in the moonlight, lit strangely by some of the atypical vision in his myriad eyes.

“Come to bed,” she says.

He tilts his head, and blinks his lower eyes. And then the row above them, and then the row above _them,_ in a slow ripple of contemplation.

“I would break it,” he points out.

Selene walks around to his front. She settles a somewhat different grip onto him, as she sets about climbing his form. He has no nose to scent her with, currently. But the heat of her hands is familiar, as she makes her way up the chaotic mess of his form.

“You said you were not trapped,” she tells him. “If you really needed to leave, then you could. That means that if you really needed to fit in the bed, you could.”

“My need is not that great yet,” he explains. He is tired; but not exhausted.

Selene reaches the broad expanse of his feathered chest, and looks down at him. It is a vivid angle. The light plays well with the brightness of her hair, and he is always pleased to have her on top of him.

“I think I can make it more pressing,” she suggests.

Then she leans down, and plants a kiss on his beak. Her lips warm and soft and wet. Dirthamen clacks his beak in a reflexive effort to return the kiss; but of course, he cannot. Beaks are not good for kissing.

Selene brushes her fingers through his feathers, and kisses him again. Moving closer to his feathers, letting a hint of desire, of _need_ spill into the air between them. Until Dirthamen feels his features shifting. Rearranging themselves to better answer her requests. His face takes on a more elven shape - though still large - and his beak becomes a set of lips. He leans back as Selene’s hands press down upon him. Urging him beneath her, urging him to _fit_ beneath her, while she stares down at him. Her lips remain beyond the reach of more kisses, though.

“It’s cold out here,” she tells him. “Get us into bed, hm?”

Dirthamen lifts up his wings, and wraps several of them around her. Selene snorts, rueful for some reason, but she _does_ feel slightly cooler than she should. He wraps her up and pulls her closer, even as she continues to press down on him. His size shrinks, bit by bit. Selene fits more comfortably into the curve of his limbs, before she sighs and gives up and slumps against his chest.

He is still not small enough to fit in their bed, but perhaps he can be comfortable enough for her to serve in its stead; he lays back against the open stretch of floor, spreading into shadows and tendrils at his edges, and buries his face against her neck to scent her. Now that he has a nose again, he feels much more anchored. Perhaps that was the problem? Birds usually have noses, but somehow or another, he had forgotten his. And he had not realize how much it was unnerving him, until now. Now that he has it back again.

He wants to smell more of her.

Genitalia seems to be evading him, but he knows a good way to work up her scent just the same. He keeps his wings around Selene as he slides several tendrils beneath them, too. Wrapping the long, smooth appendages around her legs, and winding them up her thighs. Her breath catches as he teases his touch over the curve of her backside.

“May I?” he asks. His voice echoes, quiet, but carrying enough to fill the whole room around them. Dirthamen realizes that he has not really reduced in mass; it is more that most of it has spread out in long tendrils across his chamber floor.

Selene shivers. She sinks her hangs more firmly into his feathers, and peers up at him. Her cheeks are flushed, and she is beginning to feel her usual, over-warm self in the shelter of his wings.

“Of course,” she tells him, as she tucks her nose up against his chin.

With a murmur of thanks and appreciation, he begins to tease the tip of one of his tendrils across the heat of her sex. Sliding his touch down from the cheeks of her backside, and letting the other two tendrils drift to the seam of her thighs, before caressing the soft heat around her entrance. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply as she squirms a little, and the scent of her grows, and her folds become slick. Her arousal thickening as he maintains the same steady, provocative caresses.

Her squirming increases. She attempts to move her hips, but Dirthamen is holding her quite securely. Her hands slide downwards to wriggle beneath herself, but two more tendrils move them back up towards his chest.

He trails slow, affectionate kisses across her brow, and keeps her weighted to his chest with the blanket of his wings. Unhurried, because he is not really aroused. He just wants to scent her. Wants to embrace her. Wants to have her close and to bask in it. He carries on with his caresses to raise her scent, but does not press inside of her. When his tendril is coated by her arousal, he slides it away, and brings it up to his face to taste. Enjoying that sense of her, too, as she looks at him red-faced and panting.

“Oh _fuck,”_ she says, with a low whine.

Dirthamen licks himself clean, before slipping the same tendril back down to resume his ministrations.

Selene swears quite a few times, as he basks.

“You are the _worst_ tease,” she accuses him. Hips straining, voice cracking.

Oh.

“Would you like to come?” he wonders.

Selene whines again.

“Dammit, _yes,”_ she says, panting between words and twisting her hands into his feathers. Dirthamen considers it, as he keeps up his long, slow touches.

“I am enjoying having you like this, though,” he says, contemplatively.

_“Dirthamen.”_

“Maybe later,” he suggests.

Selene gives him a look that promises retribution. But whatever she might say is lost as he strokes her _somewhat_ more firmly, and all that escapes her is a breathy moan instead.


	24. A Tiny Reprieve

It was bad enough when she found the first one.

Bundled up in the sleeve of his cloak, staring up at her with eyes that somehow only look larger on his smaller frame.

 _Much_ smaller.

Small enough that he could fit in her pocket, actually.

Which is exactly where she puts him, after a quick rinse off in the sink to rid him of any sweat or excess fluids from their previous evenings activities.

“Do you have any clothing that…fits?” She tries, looking at his regularly sized mask still sitting beside their bed.

_No,_ he informs her. _This has happened before but, only into forms which do not typically require clothing._

“I don’t remember you ever getting this small before,” Selene hums, pulling a scarf out of one of her drawers, carefully tearing a line of the fabric away.

_There was the time with the bumblebees,_ he notes, frowning slightly as she pins the fabric closed around him like a dress. _…I gave you this scarf._

“And it’s one of my favorites, and looks very lovely on you,” She assures him. “The bees were different though; they were a swarm. All together you weren’t much smaller than when you’re one solid mass.”

_I am still a swarm._

Selene pauses as she finishes tying his hair back with an older ribbon.

“…Sorry. _What?_ ”

_Technically, I am also under the dresser, the bed, sliding down the tub of the bath, and being gathered by Fear and Deceit from various places within the castle into my office currently._

“And they’re all just tiny versions of you?”

_Yes._

Selene scrubs her hand down her face and takes a deep breath.  
This is… _u_ _nusual_ , sure. But they’ve had unusual days before. Dirthamen’s had plenty of unusual _shapes_ before.

Though most of them look decidedly less vulnerable than this.

She presses her finger gently against his cheek, the soft skin squishing beneath her touch and lets out a sigh.

“Ok. Well…Let’s get you all together at least, shall we?”

It takes her a few moments to gather the other pieces of her mate. The ones playing in the tub as though it is a giant slide are particularly rueful about giving up their plans for the day, and three more crawl out of her pockets to try to join them before she scoops them all up with promises of summoning a snow pile for them to play in later.

…Although there is the potential of freezing if it is too large, she worries as she carries them down the halls towards his office. What if it is taller than they are and one of them gets buried beneath the snow? Would the others dig it out? Would that piece of him just be lost? If one part of the swarm is harmed, will it have a lasting effect on him?

It is quite a lot to worry about. Enough so that she nearly misses all of her tiny companions ducking into her bag and pockets as a surprise visitor approaches her.

“Hey, bitch,” Falon'din tsks, eyes scanning the halls around them. “Where’s my brother?”

Selene blinks.

“Uh….” She hesitates, carefully poking the head of one curious Dirthamen back down in her bag to avoid him being seen. Probably Falon'din finding him in such a vulnerable state would qualify as a worst case scenario. “ I’m not sure.”

The blondes eyes squint as her suspiciously, raking over her form from top to bottom. “Don’t fucking lie to me. I can see you’ve been near him recently.”

“You can?”

“Of course I can. _Our_ bond is greater than anything you might have tricked him into! I can see bursts of him on you right now!”

Oh.

Oh, she can’t just let that one pass by.

“That’s not what you think it is.”

“Then what _is_ it?” He sneers.

“Well, if you really want to know…” She teases. “We had a long, active night together last night, you know, _sexually,_ and I haven’t made it to the baths yet, so what you’re seeing is probably actually just his s-”

“STOP!” He yells, holding a hand up and taking a repulsed step backwards. “How dare you speak like that to me! I am a ruler of the people, you cannot speak to me so crassly-”

“Sure, because you’ve never been crass,” She drawls. “Your manners, _that’s_ what you’re known for, absolutely. Tell you what; how about you head back to wherever you came from, I’ll tell Dirthamen that you’re looking for him whenever I see him next, and no one has to know that you spent five minutes staring at what turned out to be your brothers cum stains on someone, alright?”

“ _YOU INSOLENT-_ ”

Selene holds up a finger and makes a soft, repetitive noise. “Careful now. Last I heard Mythal had you grounded for striking out against one of her people at what was supposed to be a diplomatic event. You wouldn’t want to get in trouble for this too, would you? Losing Mythal _and_ Dirthamen from your corner would be exactly the sort of opening Ghilan'nain is hoping for. Besides,” she grins, summoning a small wisp of white fire to her hand “We wouldn’t want another incident like the last one, would we, _din'din_?”

  
Falon'dins mouth opens for a moment before snapping shut, his aura flaring with anger and rage and just a touch of the ‘no, I dont want to do that again’ sort of fear, and Selene gives him a consoling pat on the shoulder with her other hand.

“There there,” She says before walking off down the halls and calling back “Deep breaths din'din!”

_You should not antagonize him so,_ Dirthamen warns, the one whose hair she had tied back poking out of her pocket again. _One day he may try to kill you._

“He’s already tried to kill me,” Selene says with a dismissive wave.

She feels a distinctly cold breeze emanating from her pockets and bag.

_When was this?_

Selene shrugs. “A while ago? A bit before the wedding, I think. I told you about it.”

_You did **not**._

Selenes steps falter slightly as she sees the doors to his office finally enter her view. “…I _meant_ to. I definitely, distinctly, remember thinking ‘I should tell Dirthamen about this’. I never did?”

_No._

“Oh,” She says, pushing down on her rising sense of guilt. It had been in one of the months leading up to the wedding, she probably just…forgot to schedule them time for that discussion, and then forgot about it altogether amidst the rush of getting everything else taken care of. “Well. We should probably talk about it sometime, then. If you want.”

Selene feels more than hears his grumbling, reluctant acceptance of a vague date, knowing her well enough by now that it’s still not a sure thing.

As she steps into the office, watching Deceit try to rally all the tiny Dirthamen into a small box, they all stop and stare up at her. In mildly terrifying unison, there is a chorus of tiny voices shouting ‘Vhenan!’ aloud as they spot her and begin trying to climb up her skirts.

She carefully nudges them all down with her fingers, summoning the promised pile of snow in one of the weather-warded tiles of the office and releasing the rest of her own gathered pieces to go off and play in the cold, only the first from the morning deciding he’d prefer to stay sitting on her shoulder for now.

“I will handle the responsibilities of the day,” Deceit declares, shifting into one of Dirthamens more common forms and placing a soft kiss on Selenes forehead.

“Falon'din is looking for you,” She warns, squeezing their hand affectionately in her own before they leave.

Deceit lets out a heavy sigh in lieu of a response, and Selene replies with a kiss of her own.

“Send him to me if you need help, or a break.”

“ _No_ ,” the rest of the room echoes back in unison.

Selene rolls her eyes before sitting in Dirthamens chair. It’s more comfortable than it looks, which is reassuring. She always worries about him spending too much time in it normally.

As the rest of the swarm takes turns building up the snow into taller and taller hills and then rolling down them, she smiles. It’s an unusual relationship, to be sure. But she wouldn’t trade it for anything.


End file.
